Things Fall Apart
by AintNoMeIfThereAintNoYou
Summary: Pre-series. When given his duty of guarding the First Seal, Castiel expects the Righteous Man and his Boy King brother. He does not expect to find two boys who fight and tease and defend each other over and over again. Two boys who will give anything to keep the other safe. While Castiel may know a lot about fate and destiny, he's about to learn a little bit about free will.
1. Prologue

**Characters:** Dean, Sam, Cas, John, Bobby  
**Pairings:** Gen  
**Warnings:** Child abuse, implied prostitution, show level violence and blasphemy, swearing.  
**Spoilers: **Seasons 2 to 5. Season 8.  
**Disclaimer: **None of the characters are mine, I'm just playing with them. The title is from Chinua Achebe's book, a book I highly recommend.

**Author Note: **This story wouldn't be half of what it is if it weren't for my amazing betas, **mb64** and **Maddy77**. They are both a delight to work with and have been a huge help in pointing out my Britishisms and generally highlighting the numerous times I've written something completely idiotic. Any mistakes that remain are wholly mine as I honestly think these two girls can't go wrong.

I'll hopefully be posting every three or four days.  
Please leave me your thoughts. Feedback is hugely appreciated.

* * *

_"We are our choices." – Jean-Paul Sartre_

Castiel doesn't remember coming into existence.

He just knows he's been around for a long, long time. Long enough to remember the great volcanoes with their clouds of ash and toxic fumes that rolled over stormy seas. Long enough to witness the self-replication of the first RNA molecules, triggered by a lightning bolt, coincidence, and just the slightest helping hand from the Maker. Long enough to see a bacterium engulf another bacterium and start the long process of the evolution of eukaryotes.

Existing is an odd concept. Does he exist if he is no more than a wavelength of celestial intent? If he does nothing more than watch time go by? Is it an existence at all if he could die right now and there would be no proof that he had ever been?

But angels don't die. Not unless God wills it.

Castiel looks upon the Earth, watching as life forms, as Pangaea splits, as ice ages come and go. He can see his Father's work there. He can see it in the curve of the sand dunes, in the infinite hues of the seas. That is how he knows He exists. There is evidence of His presence.  
Castiel cannot help but note the irony. He is here, ever-present, watching, and yet he doubts his own existence more than he can ever doubt his Father's.

Castiel watches plants take over the land. They are small at first, but they grow in size due to the lack of competition. The Earth's atmosphere starts to change. The choking carbon dioxide gives way to life-sustaining oxygen. A fish starts to come out of the sea.

Castiel is told that God has big plans for this fish.

This is the first he hears of God's plans. He does not know what to think. He decides to have faith in the Maker. He is a good soldier after all.  
These creatures continue to evolve. They survive earthquakes and floods and glacial advances with a tenacity that Castiel cannot help but admire. He wonders what his Father's plans for them may be.

But Castiel is not important enough to be told these plans. He's not an archangel, he's a foot soldier. His job is to observe and be ready to do his bit when the time comes, so he does just that.

The angels start talking again. They speak of the new species of primate that has evolved in the African savannah. They do not appear to be anything special, save their large brain sizes and strong affinity for social interaction.

And yet, the angels speak more than they have spoken for millennia. They whisper of plans and fates and destinies. They whisper of the Father's Will and the Day of Judgement.

One angel speaks out in defiance. Michael casts him down to Hell. All talk stops.

Lucifer is henceforth labelled an abomination, an outcast who serves as an example to the rest of the angels.

Castiel wonders how God can be capable of creating an abomination.

The angels do not like to talk about their fallen brother. But even through the silence Castiel gathers that these bipedal primates are important in God's eyes, that it is the job of all angels to watch over them. He gathers that Lucifer dared to disagree with their Father's plan. Michael, the shining paradigm of the obedient angel, does as God wills and removes their insubordinate brother from His holy kingdom.

This is the second time he hears of God's plan.

Castiel floats over the Earth, watching these curious creatures, these _humans_, slowly colonise the land. They make tools for hunting and foraging, collecting enough to eat for a day or two. They are relatively at peace with nature.

But then agriculture takes hold. These humans start to live together to farm and form societies. They start to dispose of their waste in rivers, to deplete the land of its resources. Castiel cannot understand why Father cares about these parasites. How can these creatures be the chosen ones?

God sends down His child to bring order. He dies on the cross, trying to atone for their sins.

The Son of God does not die instantly. It is a drawn out death full of pain and misery at the hands of the very creatures Father holds dearest. And yet the Son forgives.

Castiel will never forget the soft smile that graced his features as the last tendrils of life left his body.

On the other hand, try as he might, he cannot recall a couple of centuries. All he can dredge from the depths of the blank slate of his memory is the faint talk of killing firstborns and the bitter taste of righteous anger. After that, there's nothing. This worries Castiel a little, so he sits in the heaven of an eccentric victim of drowning and tries to recall.

It is about then that Castiel learns of the rest of God's plan.

He hears it via the talk of the other angels, the ones who are considered worthy of being privy to the Maker's will. They seemed to have deemed it necessary for Castiel to know now. There are over six hundred seals holding their estranged sibling in Hell. Of these, sixty six are destined to break and bring about the Day of Judgement.

Nonetheless, it is Castiel's duty to guard the first seal.

He sits for a long while and ponders the necessity of guarding a seal that is destined to be broken.

It feels uncomfortably like questioning the Maker's will.

Castiel desists and returns to watching Earth. He looks upon man fighting man in the name of God. He wants to scream at them to stop, to tell them that God doesn't favour one or the other, He loves them all. He loves them more than He loved His son.

But Castiel must do nothing but watch until it is his time. He watches this war and the many that follow. He watches as mothers clasp helpless children in their embrace, as poisonous hydrogen cyanide seeps in through the vents in the gas chambers these creatures God loves so much have built for one another.

He begins to lose faith in humanity.

He wanders through the heavens, trying to find somewhere to hide from the bloodshed he has witnessed. There must be a reason for these wars, this cruelty. He's sure of it. After all, humans must fall before they learn to pick themselves up.

When the war ends, Castiel returns to watching Earth. He follows the particles that will form two brothers. One is on the tip of the nose of John F Kennedy. A few are in a blooming rhododendron in the form of carbon dioxide molecules. A couple more are in the internal wiring of the world's first computer.

It seems these boys already have quite a history.

Castiel wonders what it must be like to have a history. His constituent matter has not travelled through supernovas or volcanoes or the guts of earthworms. He is merely a standing wave, a superposition of the wavelengths that make up his grace. He has no past. He has no roots.

He does not know what to feel about that so he leaves the thought alone and settles for watching more of humanity's antics.

The indulgent, decadent, and wasteful share the same footpaths as those who have made the footpaths their home. Food rots in bins while babies cry of empty stomachs. He wonders if Father may have been mistaken when He declared these creatures His greatest work. There does not seem to be anything worth saving in them.

By the time John Winchester meets Mary Campbell, Castiel has lost all hope for humanity. There is little to love in this species that is set on killing both one another and then the planet the Lord has made for them.

But even then, these are the progenitors of two of the most important beings to ever exist, so he watches the crossing of their paths with interest. At first, the two do not like each other. They meet briefly and decide the other is not worth their time and start to go their separate ways.

Castiel's curiosity piques. This is not how destiny has been written.

He not surprised to witness Heaven's intervening by way of a Cupid's arrow. John starts to see a charm to Mary's spirited nature. Mary finds herself drawn to the softness hidden under John's hardened exterior.

After all, it is common knowledge that destiny cannot be changed.

Then comes Azazel. Castiel can see his grotesque face for what it is and every instinct within him calls for him to smite the demon where he stands. But at the end of the day, Azazel is doing God's work, so Castiel restrains himself and continues to watch. Mary takes the demon's deal and John is alive again. Heaven's plan progresses smoothly.

A year or so later, the first seal is born.

The red, sticky, bawling baby in the nurse's arms is Michael's vessel. It seems odd that the Sword of the most powerful angel in existence is so weak and fragile. But that is the way of their Father and Castiel forces himself to not question His choices.

Castiel watches this baby, _Dean_, grow. He watches as he learns to crawl, as he says his first words (an unremarkable 'mama'), as he discovers he can learn a lot about objects simply by popping them in his mouth.

Castiel finds he is curious about that. He can detect the very molecules that make up a substance. Any object's structure and inner workings are no mystery to him. But this child can only learn in bits and pieces. He learns by the feel of an object in his hand, by trying to use it, by watching others use it. While Castiel can tell you the temperature of a cup of coffee instantly in both Fahrenheit and Kelvin, Dean learns coffee is hot by dipping his finger in his mother's cup and consequently howling.

John and Mary's relationship is far from smooth. They argue over insignificant things like washing machines and working hours. Whenever this happens, John packs a bag and leaves for the night. This leaves Dean to sit on his mother's lap, take her face between his small, pink hands, much like she does to him, and tell her that everything will be okay.

Nothing about this little boy resembles his powerful, intimidating archangel brother. But every angel knows how this story goes. As it is in Heaven, so it must be on Earth.

A couple of years later, the younger brother is born. While Dean wailed incessantly, demanding Mary's constant attention, Samuel Winchester is quiet and watchful. He rarely cries and is generally as small a burden as possible on his mother.

They form a close, tight-knit family. Initially, Dean dislikes the idea of sharing his toys and his parents' affection with another child. However, he soon warms to having Sam around, especially when it becomes clear he will not be able to play with Dean's toys, at least for a little while longer. They go to t-ball games and buy soft toys for Sam. They appear to get by like every other American family.

That is, until Azazel comes to make good on his end of the deal.

The yellow eyes glow through the darkness as the demon lets his blood drip into the dimpled baby's mouth, tainting him forever. Mary interrupts and Castiel watches with dismay as her body burns on the ceiling. Her stomach has been slashed open like a clumsy cut by a drunken surgeon. The acrid smoke and the smell of the burning flesh are enough to make even the quietest of babies wail. John picks Sam up and thrusts him into a young Dean's hands with a cry of "Take your brother outside as fast as you can, and don't look back!"

Dean dutifully takes his younger brother in his arms and runs out of the house. His voice quivers as he whispers into the baby's ear: "It's okay, Sammy."

His arms are tiring from holding Sam—Castiel can tell from the way the actin and myosin filaments are straining against each other in the small boy's muscles—but he continues to protect the sibling he will one day fight.

Castiel watches as things come together.


	2. Chapter 1

_June 1984_

While Dean Winchester has never been a particularly talkative child, his steady silence is unsettling.

Castiel has observed other children his age. Their parents occasionally lament to the Maker to bring an end to their persistent chatter. On the other hand, John Winchester prays that this change in his son is not permanent. The child has not spoken since the night of the fire.

It does not appear to be from a lack of trying. The young boy's face often contorts in a desperate attempt to form words. He mouths and mimes them, but can never translate these actions into vibrations from his vocal chords.

Castiel finds it surprisingly unpleasant to watch Dean's lips silently open and close as bitter tears roll down his cheeks.

John appears to deal with this the way he chooses to deal with most of his problems—by consuming copious amounts of alcohol and looking for a supernatural abomination to take his anger out on. He asks Dean constantly about the things he likes: t-ball, sandwich fillings, Batman. The child nods or shakes his head where appropriate, but never more than that.

Castiel beings to wonder what will happen to Heaven's plan if the Righteous Man is unable to consent to being Michael's vessel altogether. Maybe another potential Sword will be born and Castiel will be relegated to watching their progress instead.

The vessel of the Light—currently a terrified, mute boy—arrives in a salvage yard. His father plans to leave him and his brother there while he attempts to hunt his first werewolf. Winchester has heard stories about the ferocity of these creatures, about their thirst for carnage. As baffling as Castiel finds humanity, he can understand that John does not want to risk Sam and Dean's lives. But that doesn't stop him from noticing the way young Dean's amygdala lights up with rapidly firing neurons. Fear courses through him as he takes his first steps in Robert Steven Singer's home. He stands by the door, watching the Impala drive away, tears glistening in his eyes.

"Well, you'd better come in then." Mr. Singer's voice is gruff to the point it may be considered unfriendly. The boy doesn't seem to mind though. He reluctantly turns around and traipses in, his brother balanced in his arms.

"I'll put him in a cot." Mr. Singer says from behind the boy.

He reaches forward to take the baby but Dean steps back and shakes his head. Instead he looks around, locates the worn-out couch with the sagged cushions, and places his brother on it. He then proceeds to sit next to the baby. He glances at Mr. Singer with a slight hint of a challenge that Bobby appears to know better than to accept.

Bobby Singer lifts his shoulders and lets them fall in the manner humans often do when admitting acceptance.

"Okay then, what would you kids like to eat?"

Dean repeats his gesture back to him and shuffles off the couch, his legs struggling to reach the ground until he jumps. He walks over to an olive green bag that John recently bought from an army surplus store and pulls out a bottle. He then proceeds to walk into the kitchen and warm up some milk.

Robert Singer watches from the doorway.

"Huh. Not much of a talker, are you?"

Dean merely shakes his head, takes the milk out of the microwave, and tests it on the back of his hand. It is all done with an expert ease that appears to startle Bobby Singer, but to Castiel it is hardly a surprise. The boy has been looking after his baby brother for almost eight months now.

Satisfied that the milk is at the correct temperature, the little boy proceeds to feed his little brother. He gently nudges the nipple of the bottle between the baby's lips and lets him drink his fill. Dean then burps him and slowly rocks him until he falls asleep.  
"You should probably go to sleep too, son," Bobby says from the doorway where he has been stood for the whole time. He wears an expression of mild discomfort, like he might be intruding on something personal.

The green-eyed boy shakes his head. He points at Singer and then puts his palms together, as if to pray, but then brings them up to the side of his head. Castiel has seen children make this gesture before. It apparently represents sleeping, though Castiel has rarely seen anyone sleep like that.

"I should go to bed?" asks Bobby, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.

Dean nods. He climbs onto the old couch—Castiel notes the faint traces of alcohol and dog urine—and wraps himself around his little brother.  
Bobby Singer lifts and drops his shoulders once again.

"Come get me if you need anything," he says before walking off, muttering to himself about Dean being "as stubborn as his old man."

Samuel Winchester reaches most standard developmental milestones with impressive speed. He has taken his first steps well within a year. He is walking confidently with a little help a couple of months after that. The child follows Dean everywhere, looking to his brother for guidance and protection.

Dean does his part and provides both liberally. He does not leave Sam alone in a room longer than he has to, and he insists on handling all child-rearing activities by himself. While Bobby does not admit it openly, Castiel suspects the semi-retired Hunter is somewhat relieved. The man has no children of his own and from what Castiel can see, raising offspring is generally a messy affair.

Bobby, for his part, renews the supply of diapers and baby food surreptitiously when they run out. He doesn't tell Dean; he just drives off with a quick "going to go pick up some supplies". He returns an hour later, openly carrying bags containing tins of spam while hiding the baby supplies in the trunk. Castiel understands this has something to do with "hurting one's pride", even though pride is nothing physical and thus cannot actually be stimulated to induce pain.

Bobby is on one of these supply runs now, leaving the brothers alone in the house with a giant, slobbering dog both boys seem fond of. Dean pats the dog a couple of times on the head. He then proceeds to get out a sheet of paper and some worn out crayons from underneath the couch cushion where he wadded them last night.

Castiel is at a loss for what to think of this daily ritual. Every day, without fail, Dean Winchester will pull out some paper and crayons and write the alphabet. His letters are large and messy, his S's often the wrong way round. Nonetheless, he will always write out the alphabet a couple of times in different colours, and then the numbers from one to nine.

This, Castiel reasons, is Dean's way of remembering a life he once had. Dean has not been to school since the fire. John means to put him back in, Castiel can see that in the way he often hurriedly scrawls a quick note to himself to enroll his son the next time they stop for a hunt. But nothing ever comes of it and Dean ends up learning what he can from crumpled up pieces of paper he stashes under beer-stained couch cushions.

Once he grows bored of this activity, the boy stores the tools of his secretive learning and hoists his baby brother onto his hip. Sam gurgles as Dean tickles him, his dimpled smile inducing a mirror image in the elder Winchester. Sam wriggles as the tickling intensifies, kicking out in an attempt to get away. One kick lands solidly on Dean's kidney. Castiel can see the pain receptors firing rapid signals along the boy's nervous system, but all Dean lets out is a quiet gasp. Acting on instinct, he drops Sam onto the couch and clasps the sore area with both hands.

Sam lands with a soft thump and promptly starts crying. The baby directs his wide gaze at the older brother he adores. Castiel thinks he can see something akin to betrayal on the young face.

Just then, the front door opens and Dean is torn between checking who the intruder is and attending to Sam. He opts for the latter. Dean wraps his arms around the wailing child despite his protests and lays his wet, snot-stained face against his shoulder.

Bobby Singer runs to the doorway to see why Sam is crying. Castiel expects him to step inside and take over, as adults often do when children appear to be upset. But once again, he looks like he knows this is something personal that is best left uninterrupted.

Dean bounces Sam as best he can. Eventually, the howling softens into quiet sobs and the odd sneeze that spreads nasal mucus all over Dean's shirt. Dean rubs his brother's back and lays his head against the baby's.

"S'okay Sammy, I got you," he whispers. His voice is croaky from disuse but it is there. "I'm sorry."

Bobby opens the door a little wider to indicate his presence, a light smile playing across his face. Dean's arms tighten around his brother before relaxing again once he recognises the intruder.

"That was real brave of you, kid," Bobby says. "I'm proud of you."

Dean does not respond. Instead he puts his brother down on the couch and grimaces at the dark stain on his shirt where Sam used to be.  
"Don't worry 'bout that, I'll take care of it," Bobby says as he offers his hand to the little boy. "How 'bout we go feed Rumsfeld?"

Dean stares at the hand, and then up at Bobby. He looks away. Castiel watches the way Bobby's shoulders droop at the rejection. The old man is about to turn—the motor centre of his brain has just made this decision—when small fingers wind their way around his palm.

"'Kay," comes the breathy whisper.

Bobby's eyes light up and his smile returns. Castiel watches the unlikely pair walk off. He should feel jubilation at the thought that Dean Winchester will still be able to consent to being Michael's vessel. And he does.

But there's a little part of him that dreads this inevitable conclusion.

_September 1984_

While Castiel would rather not admit it, he will accept his Father is a unique combination of strict, protective, caring and absent.

Almost unique.

It may be blasphemous to even think this, but Castiel does not feel God and John Winchester are all that different. Both love their children to their very core. Both seem determined not to show it.

Dean Winchester climbs into his father's car after his twenty-seventh day at the same kindergarten. This is the longest he has ever stayed in one school since the fire, and Dean appears to have grown fond of the teacher and students there.

"I got a special sticker from the teacher today," the boy says. "She says my drawing was very good and I'm the Student of the Day."  
His eager grin and light bouncing leads John to smile down at him from the driver's seat. He looks haggard after a couple of close calls with a water spirit that refused to die. The elder Winchester is slowly learning that the life of a Hunter is both tiring and thankless.

"What was it a picture of?" he asks. His voice has aged far faster than his face over the last year. There is a hard edge to it that wasn't present before.

"We had to draw what makes us happy, and what makes us sad."

"Show me it when we get home."

Dean nods and settles back. He picks at the sleeves of the shirt he is quickly growing out of. It should have been replaced months ago, but John Winchester has prioritised hunts over his children's welfare.

They arrive home to a motel room strewn with old newspaper clippings and blurred photographs. Mold is starting to crawl out of the corners of the room—Castiel can see the hyphae tendrils stretching out over the walls. The vessel of Satan is curled up and sucking his thumb on the lone double bed the room contains. The sheet he is currently sleeping on top of contains faint traces of semen.

The baby's eyelids flutter open at the sound of the door opening. He makes a sound that Castiel can spell with relative ease in Enochian, but can only get as close as 'lyanmphh' using the Latin alphabet.

"Heya Sammy," says the Righteous Man. He crawls onto the bed as their father starts to warm up a can of Campbell's Beef RavioliOs on the stove. The food is low in nutrients and high in salt. It doesn't seem suitable as dinner for two small children. Still, this can be heated until it is a soft mush and as Sam is still teething, John seems to have decided to sacrifice health in favour of quiet.

Meanwhile, Dean is hiding under the bed covers, leaving a surprised Sam in his wake. But the boy is clever. He starts patting down the worn-out blanket until he hits upon the lump that is Dean's calf. The baby lets out a squeal of delight. Dean slides out from under the covers. His hair is awry and sticking up in places, which just leads to Sam laughing harder.

John comes over just in time to see Sam swat his brother on the arm with a flailing hand and say his first word.

"Dee!"

It's not much. In all honesty, it's no more than the random babble Sam often spouts. But it's enough to have Dean running to his father's side.

"Did you hear that?" he yells, jumping up and down. His blood glucose concentration is at a small crest after eating the chocolate bar given to him by his teacher for his drawing.

"I heard him, son," John says. He strides over and scoops his younger son up with one arm. "Say 'Dada' now."

Sam ignores his father and continues to holler 'Dee' over and over again.

Castiel can see why this might be Lucifer's vessel.

John's smile wears off as it becomes apparent that 'dada' is being saved for another day. He hands the baby back to his brother with a quick, "I better get back to making dinner."

Dean spends the next ten minutes or so trying to get Sam to add an 'n' to the ends of his cries of 'Dee' to no avail. John comes out after that with a steaming pan of pasta and processed meat.

"Dean," John says as he sits down next to Sam with his food, "want to show me that picture?"

Dean's face lights up. He jumps out of his chair and scrambles for his rucksack. He pulls out the crumpled sheet and waits patiently for John to finish feeding Sam. He father is a man with a strong sense of priorities and Dean appears to appreciate that.

Once he is done, Dean hands over the sheet. The top corner has a large golden star stuck on, with the words 'Well Done!' written in a spiky scrawl. The rest of the page is divided into two halves: the top is labelled 'Happy', while the bottom is labelled 'Sad'.

Both halves have a lot in common. They both contain a hill with some flowers growing at the side and a little house in the background. Both contain v's in the air, which Castiel guesses are meant to resemble birds. Both contain a bright blue sky with a sun that wears a smile. In fact, nearly everything is the same in both pictures.

Apart from the people.

The top half shows John Winchester holding hands with Mary, who in turn is holding hands with a grinning Dean. Dean's other hand appears to be wrapped around a bundle of blankets which has an arrow pointing to it and the word 'SAM' written above it in red crayon.

The bottom half shows Dean alone.

John stills as he looks at the picture. He runs his fingers over Mary's face, down to where her hand joins his. There is gentleness in John's touch that Castiel rarely sees anymore.

Suddenly, he gets up, paper still in hand, food half-eaten on his plate.

"Go to bed, Dean," he says. His voice has a rough edge to it that makes the little boy take a step back.

"Yes, sir," whispers Dean. All euphoria over Sam's first word has left him. He picks Sam up off the floor, where he has been investigating the effects of disrupting a line of ants.

"Dee!" Sam squeals as his brother's arms wrap around him.

There's a small flicker of a smile on Dean's face, and then it's gone.


	3. Chapter 2

**Author Note: **Here's a little Christmas present for you all.

_November 1984_

John Winchester does not cope well with the anniversary of Mary's death.

Castiel still cannot understand the attachments humans form with each other. It's nothing deeper or more profound than the right mix of hormones at the right moment. And yet these creatures cling to them as if they are enough to give life meaning.

John tucks away the fading photograph of his wife and puts on his jacket.

"I'm going out for a bit. Watch out for Sammy."

Dean nods and picks at the bandage around his thumb. The bloodstained cotton marks the aftermath of the young boy's recent escapade with a knife and a particularly stubborn carrot. Castiel isn't sure if children so young should be handling sharp blades yet, but the child's exclamation of "son of a bitch!" as he dropped the offending implement did amuse him somewhat.

John leans over and places a soft hand on Dean's shoulder. "If you ignore it, the pain will go away."

Dean nods and brings his hands apart. Castiel can see a thin streak of maroon has reached the edge of the crudely wrapped cotton. The bandage will need replacing soon.

John moves away again and continues to throw overdue books and a gun into the olive-coloured bag he's taking to the library.

"Dad, is there anything to eat?" the boy asks. He shifts from one foot to another.

"Didn't you eat just a couple of hours ago?" John asks in an offhand manner. His attention is on checking he has remembered to put his journal in.

The child bites his lip hard enough to pierce the skin. A little blood seeps into his mouth.

"Yes, sir."

This isn't right. Surely the Righteous Man ought not to lie, especially to his father? Yes, Sam Winchester ate a couple of hours ago, a mushy concoction of various vegetables that have been through the blender. Castiel wonders if he is mistaken and Dean ate with his brother as he claims to have done. He delves into the boy's stomach and intestines only to find them mostly empty, barring the remnants of some sweetcorn and pasta from lunch the previous day.

John sighs and heads towards the door. "There are some animal crackers in the cupboard. Eat them if you get hungry."

With that, he exits, leaving a silent Dean nodding in his wake. As the door shuts, the boy's stomach lets out another quiet rumble. He traipses over to the empty cupboard and runs his hands over the shelf that used to contain a packet of animal crackers. His fingertips come back coated in dust. The child ate them last night when John came home drunk and crying and calling Mary's name over and over again. Dean spent the night washing the sick off the front of his father's shirt and whispering "it's okay" until the man passed out on the couch.

There is a quiet tragedy to it all. Castiel wishes he could not appreciate this. He wishes he could turn a blind eye as most of his siblings seem to be able to.

The small child pulls a chair to the sink, stands on it, and drinks glass after glass of water until the negative feedback response in his stomach fires up. It tells his brain he's full now and can stop. It is a clever tactic, using his body's mechanisms against it. Once he's done, he replaces the chair and walks into the bedroom, where Sam is currently doing an atrocious job of colouring in some circles and squares.

"Dee!" the young boy squeals. His vocabulary now consists of 'Dee', 'Daddy' and 'Pee-pee'—the last of which never fails to elicit a groan from the older boy.

"Hey, Sammy, what you got there?" Dean climbs onto the bed and swings his legs off the edge.

Sam ignores him and picks the purple crayon again. He sticks the blunt end in his mouth, happily chewing until Dean drags his hand away and places it on the page. Sam takes over from there and draws a couple of short, spiky lines, followed by three large loops. It looks vaguely like the Enochian word for boulevard, but Castiel doubts that was the eighteen month old's intention.

Once he is finished, he holds the sheet up for Dean with a large grin, the infant's strong grip reflex creating creases along the edges.

Dean takes it into his hands and flattens it out.

"Want me to give this to mom?" His voice barely rises above a whisper.

Castiel used to find the question a little odd. He had initially wondered if Dean was contemplating digging up their mother's remains to give her Sam's drawings. But, as it turned out, that is not what Dean had meant. Instead, he folded up all of Sam's drawings and put them in their duffle, on top of a framed photograph of Mary Winchester.

Sam nods, oblivious to what a 'mom' is. Nonetheless, he recognises Dean's voice and that is enough for him.

Dean folds up the sheet and gives Sam another page to colour on. "You should make something for Dad. He doesn't feel very good today."

The younger Winchester ignores the elder, opting to yawn and curl up into a ball on the comforter instead. Dean sighs and starts to cover him up when his stomach rumbles again. The child clutches at his stomach and swallows back spit.

"If you ignore it, the pain will go away," he whispers to himself.

But unfortunately for him, the pain doesn't go away. The pain grows and grows and grows until the boy can think of little else. He tries combining three cups of water and reruns of a bizarre cartoon consisting of a young man in a cape and red underwear flying around a city. It only keeps him distracted for a couple of hours before the gnawing sensation starts up again. A McDonald's advert flashes up on the television screen. A thin thread of drool sneaks out of the corner of Dean's mouth before he manages to lick it back in.

Dean gets up from the armchair and goes over one of the duffels leaning against the wall beside the couch. His steps slow as he approaches. The sweat production on his palms increases. The boy takes a deep breath before quickly yanking open the bag and taking out a box full of the vegetables. John pulverised them at the last motel, where they had free access to the kitchen blender.

Slowly, Dean opens the lid and takes in the smell, spit pooling in his mouth. He goes over to the counter-top, box in hand, and pulls out a mug from the cupboard next his knee. The boy scoops out a fifth of the contents of the box into the mug. He then heats the mug in the microwave, taking the thirty seconds on the timer to stash away Sam's food exactly where he found it. The boy even replicates the amount the zip had been open by before he removed the box.

Castiel finds the obsessive attention to detail mildly disturbing in such a young child.

Seeing there are still ten seconds on the timer, Dean edges out of the kitchenette and checks on his sleeping brother. An odd expression flashes across the boy's face and his throat constricts as he swallows, even though there is nothing in his mouth.

The timer beeps twice, indicating the food is warm now (though in reality it is closer to lukewarm, an exact temperature of 296.45 Kelvin to be precise). Dean slowly drags himself away from Sam with a quiet "sorry." He retrieves the food and sits at the table, cheap plastic spoon in hand.

The tears that have been brimming in the young child's eyes finally overflow as he swallows his first mouthful.

_x_

_October 1985_

The vessel of the Light is a dead-eye marksman at the tender age of six.

The little boy shoots the beer cans one by one off a wall thirty yards away. They fly backwards and land on the grass with a soft thud.

The child is wearing two threadbare layers of plaid as protection against the biting autumn wind. It doesn't seem to be enough. The boy's core body temperature hovers around three hundred and nine Kelvin, a degree less than it should be. Nonetheless, Dean does not appear to mind. Instead, he beams at his father and takes another two steps back, raising the gun to start again.

John returns the smile and says, "Alright, one last one and then we gotta head back in."

Dean nods. "I'm gonna keep the cans and show them to Sammy and Uncle Bobby."

John walks over to the wall and sets out another six beer cans, having finally found a benefit to his latent alcoholism. Once he has set it up, John moves to the side to watch.

"Okay Dean, go for it."

The change in the young boy is, frankly, terrifying. The shivering stops and the grin disappears. Dean angles his head and lines up the firearm with the target. His eyes fill with a steely determination that leaves no room for doubt that this is John Winchester's son. Dean pulls the trigger and the first can is gone. The recoil puts pressure on the boy's elbow and shoulder, but he ignores it and shifts his aim, realigning and firing again.

Soon enough, the cans are lying deformed on the ground. John Winchester could not look prouder.

"That was real good there, kid," he says with a nod.

Dean smiles as he swings the shotgun over his shoulder. "Am I as good as you now, Dad?"

John takes the child's hand in his own. "No, you're better."

_x_

John Winchester leaves later that evening for what appears to be a nearby haunting but will actually turn out to be a fortnight long interstate goose chase.

Castiel watches Sam knock over the hole-ridden cans that Dean has painstakingly aligned on Robert Singer's kitchen table. The toddler squeals in delight as the cans drop onto the floor and roll away. He climbs off the chair and chases after them, laughing as Dean and Bobby hurry in to see what caused the crash.

"Damn kids," Bobby mutters, drying his hands on a dirty washcloth. He goes over to the table and starts to pick up the cans when Dean stops him.

"It's 'kay, it doesn't matter. I'll put 'em in the trash," the kid says as he picks Sam up off the floor and sits him down in a chair. "It wasn't that good anyway."

"That kind of accuracy on your first go is pretty damn impressive, Dean," says Bobby. He rights the cans and places them in a line once again.

Dean shrugs and looks at the carpet. "Whatev'r."

Castiel doesn't quite understand why Bobby chuckles at that.

"You gonna come back in and give me a hand with the washing up?"

"Sure." Dean ambles back into the kitchen and starts drying plates once again. There isn't much to do and soon they find they're down to the last few cups. "Uncle Bobby, dya reckon selling stuff's a pretty dangerous job?"

"Huh?" Bobby dunks a glass into the soapy water and scrapes the inside with a sponge. "Depends on what you're selling and who you're selling it to."

"Figures." Dean goes back to drying.

"Why are you asking?" Bobby hands the kid the glass and picks up Sam's green tumbler.

"'S just that Daddy's a travelling salesman, right?"

Bobby's hands still in the water. "Uh, yeah."

"But he comes home with cuts an' bruises an' stuff. I just guessed his job must be dangerous. Maybe he sells the wrong stuff to the wrong people."

Dean shrugs and Bobby mirrors it. "Yeah. Maybe."

They finish washing and drying the cups. Bobby opens the plughole and Dean watches the water drain out. The soap bubbles diffract the light from the fluorescent tube to create rainbows on their surfaces.

"What do you kids want for breakfast tomorrow?" asks Bobby, drying his hands once again.

Dean doesn't seem to hear the question. His index finger reaches out into the sink. He pokes a bubble until it pops. Bobby comes over to watch what the kid is doing.

"I kinda wish Daddy would stay with us a little more," the kid whispers at the metal basin. "It's fun 'nd stuff when he does. Like shooting today."  
Bobby seems to be at a loss for how to respond. Castiel wishes he could explain to the lost, childless, old man that this is how it has to be. God cannot be there for His children all the time.

"Dya think he doesn't like us? Is that why he leaves?" His voice is quiet. Castiel gathers that he fears the reply.

"'Course not. Your dad's a good guy. He helps a lot of people," Bobby says, his gruff voice teetering on affection. He picks Dean off the stool he has been stood on and places him on his shoulders despite the child's protests about being too old for piggybacks. "Besides, how can he not be proud of a kid like you? You're the tallest guy in the world."

Castiel agrees with the sentiment, but he's not sure he agrees with Bobby Singer's reasoning. First of all, Dean Winchester clearly isn't the tallest human being in the world. The current record-holder is over eight feet tall whereas Dean Winchester is a mere three and a half. Secondly, there is far more to be proud of in this boy. He honours his father. He loves and cares for his younger brother. He is the vessel of Heaven. These are far more logical traits to take pride in.

Nonetheless, the statement makes the boy giggle. He continues to laugh as Bobby carries him out of the kitchen and over to the couch, where he is unceremoniously dumped with a groan of "you're gonna kill my back."

"Dean!" Sam gurgles as his brother lands beside him. The child then looks around with a puzzled frown. "Where Daddy?"

"Daddy's at work. He's helping people," the kid says, looking up at Bobby with a small smile. "He loves you, Sammy."

Bobby nods. "He loves you too, Dean," he adds, but the child doesn't seem to hear.  
_x_

Four months later, Dean watches with open-mouthed horror as John Winchester implants a silver bullet into a shapeshifter's left atrium.

The six year old boy stares as the body falls to the ground with a dull thud. John catches his son's wide eyes. Panic flits through his own.

"Daddy, why did you kill that man?" Dean whispers. "He wasn't doing nothin'."

John takes a couple of steps towards the boy. Dean stumbles back towards the exit of the bar restroom he has just come out of. His hands are outstretched behind him, feeling for the door.

"It's not what it looks like."

Dean's eyes remain wide, jumping between the body on the floor and the gun in his father's hand.

"I'm telling you, it's not what it looks like." John strides over to the child and picks him up before he can scramble back in through the restroom exit. Dean wriggles and kicks in John's arms.

"Quit struggling," the older man growls.

The boy stills, his chin quivering.

"Will you kill me too?"

The words are quiet, almost too quiet to be heard within the human auditory range. Castiel considers the possibility that John missed his son's question. From set of the elder Winchester's jaw he does not think that this is the case.

They reach the car and John slides Dean into the passenger seat before going back around to get behind the wheel. Dean's fingers flutter over the door handle, sweaty tips leaving rings of condensation on the cold metal. The child shuffles so he's as close to the door as possible. He stares out of the window.

"That thing—" John stops when Dean flinches at his voice. He softens it and carries on. "That thing wasn't human."

Dean's nod is too vigorous, too eager, to be honest. Castiel wonders once again why the Righteous Man feels the need to deceive so often.

"I mean it." John runs a hand through his hair as the child nods again. "Hey, Dean," he clicks his fingers next to the boy's ear, "look at me." Dean's head snaps round at that. John meets his gaze and asks earnestly, "Would I lie to you?"

Dean bites his lip, picking at a small tear that developed over the dry winter months. He shakes his head.

"No, sir."

John turns back to face the windscreen. His shoulders fall and his throat constricts at the honorific. Castiel cannot comprehend why he finds it uncomfortable when he's the one who taught the children to call him that in the first place.

"There are things out there, evil things, that like to hurt people, Dean," John finally speaks. "They killed your mother. They—" His voice breaks and Dean looks up in alarm at his father's aborted sob. "They burned her, Dean. They cut her open and they burned her. She screamed, oh God, she screamed and she bled and she—"

John turns around to see Dean has opened the car door and is currently retching on the car park tarmac. He gets out and crouches beside the curled up figure, running a soft hand over the boy's back.

"You need to hear this, Dean," he says, his voice barely rising above a whisper. "I know you don't want to—and Hell, I wish you didn't have to—but I need you to know what's out there. There's a whole lotta nasty out there: ghosts, demons, werewolves. And I help kill them. And I'm gonna keep doing this 'til we find the son of a bitch that killed Mary."

Dean gathers himself up and nods at the ground.

"She didn't deserve to die, Dean," John swallows and blinks back tears. "She had her whole life ahead of her."

Dean doesn't even bother to nod this time.


	4. Chapter 3

_September 1988_

Castiel watches as policemen and army soldiers stand by while a church in Haiti is attacked and burnt down during Sunday mass. Their faces remain impassive as their brothers and sisters scream and plead until life slowly fades from their bodies.

Once again, Castiel finds himself wondering what their Father sees in this species.

He misses the days where he could go on ignoring what was happening below him, finding bliss within ignorance. But now, all he can hear are the cries of a little girl whose only concern is if her mother is safe. Castiel pities whoever has to tell the child that her mother was murdered by the trampling masses.

_Why?_

Castiel projects the question to the other angels.

They remain silent.

_Why?_

He asks again, to no avail.

_Why must they suffer? How is this righteous?_

Castiel knows his thoughts have risen to a shout, but he cannot bring himself to care. A quiet voice sounds at the back of his mind.

_Because it is the way He wills it to be._

And that is what it always comes back to. The Father and His Will. The Father who ordered one son to cast way another. The Father who created this Earth and this Plan and this Suffering, and then left.

Sometimes Castiel wonders if their Father ever existed at all.

_x_

Castiel doesn't know when he started favouring visiting the Winchester brothers over the autistic man's eternal Tuesday afternoon when he needs to get away, but he finds himself observing a six year old Samuel Winchester in class.

"Okay kids, can everybody get out their pencils and their English notebooks and put today's date and title," the trainee teacher calls out. The syntax is that of a question and yet she says it like it's a statement. Castiel assumes this is another one of humanity's quirks that he will never fully understand.

The classroom is bright and airy, with walls covered in artwork of varying degrees of ability. The blackboard is bordered by the alphabet and the numbers from one to twenty. The carpet is a dull tan, worn down by hundreds of tiny feet, with the odd stain from when a child didn't manage to reach the toilet in time.

Samuel Winchester appears to be very happy here. He opens his exercise book and runs a finger over the peeling gold sticker stuck underneath his last piece of work.

"We're going to write a letter to our best friend," the teacher continues. "What do we start letters with?"

Some children start to put their hands up, while others continue their debate about if 'eating boogers lets you glow in the dark'. Sam chews on the end of the pencil he's holding (something Castiel wishes he could warn him not to do, as Dean has chewed it before and there are still traces of bacteria from his mouth on it) and turns to the girl sat next to him.

"Who's your best friend?"

The girl frowns and covers up her work quickly. "Mine's Lydia, but you can't copy me!"

"'M not gonna," Sam mumbles. "How did you pick she was your best friend?"

"'S easy, we've been best friends since kindergarten. She always invites me to her birthday parties and we named our Barbie dolls after each other."

Sam splinters the wood on the end of his pencil a little further, lost in thought. "I don't have any Barbie dolls," he admits, "and I got invited to Steve's birthday party but we had to move b'fore I could go."

"I dunno then," the girl says, writing a large 'Dear Lydia' at the top of her page. "How 'bout someone who helps you when you get hurt? Best friends do that too."

"That counts?" Sam asks. Castiel sees the signals being rapidly transmitted through the small child's brain. The motor neurons in his arms fire as he picks up the pencil and brings it to the blank sheet in front of him.

"Duh," says the little girl, rolling her eyes. She returns to her page and writes a short sentence about how she likes that Lydia's favourite colour is purple, the same as hers.

"'Kay," says Sam, his tongue peeking out from between his teeth as he starts to write.

_Dear Dean,_  
_Your my best frend becus you always give me the last of the Lucky Charms. When Daddy isn't there you look after me and help me when I get an ingury. When I am older I want to be just like you._

_I like it when you read Batman comics to me and when you sing Hey Jude. This was Mommy's favrit song and you know all the words. Daddy knows all the words too so he is my frend too. But he is not my bestest frend because he goes away a lot. Like when he went away when you were sick. You were coffing and snot came out and it was __disgu—__disgast—__disjust—__ really yucky. I made you tomato rise soop and you sed it was just water but you still drinked it all._

_You are also my best frend becus you tell me storys and play with me. Daddy never does that but thats becus he is always busy. I hope you never becum busy and leave like him._

_Yours sinseerly,_  
_Sam Winchester_

Sam frowns at his name for a while before crossing it out and writing:

_Sammy_

He then gets off his seat and hands in his letter.

This is the boy with the demon blood, the vessel of Darkness. This is the Other Brother.

Castiel's family is shattered, torn apart at the seams by a wish to follow orders and do what is right. But as he watches this young boy's adoration for his elder sibling, he wonders how Lucifer felt fighting his brother. How Sam will when battling Dean.

He takes one last look at the child's dimpled smile and decides he doesn't want to know.

_x_

"All right, if I'm not back by Sunday night?"

"Call Pastor Jim."

"Lock the doors, the windows, close the shades. And most important?"

"Watch out for Sammy." The boy glances over at his younger brother, who is currently engrossed in the pictures coming up on the glorified cathode ray tube. "I know."

"Alright. If something tries to bust in?"

"Shoot first, ask questions later."

John squeezes Dean's shoulder fondly. "That's my man."

Sam doesn't look up as his father leaves and Dean locks the door behind him. Castiel watches as John stands on the other side for a second, his shoulders slumped, staring at the wood separating him from his boys. A beat later, he sighs and walks away.

Dean heads for the kitchen to do an inventory of the supplies, a routine procedure for whenever they're left during a hunt. John has told him he'll be gone a week at most. It didn't make sense to Castiel why Dean appeared to believe him, considering how inaccurate his estimations have been in the past.

Then again, Michael rarely questioned their Father either.

"Sam," Dean calls out from the kitchenette, "you want Lucky Charms for dinner?"

"Yeah," Sam replies, his eyes not leaving the screen.

Dean nods at the cupboard and pushes a soup can out of the way to reach the half empty box. His fingers stir the dust as he rummages, and a few flecks find their way up his nasal passage.

Dean sneezes loud enough to get Sam's attention.

"That's gross," Sam pulls a disgusted sneer at the long threads of mucus hanging between Dean's nose and hand.

"Your face is gross," Dean grunts as he moves away from the cupboard and towards his brother. His eyes grow wide and a mischievous grin tugs at the edges of his mouth.

Castiel cannot see this ending well.

"Hey Sam, wanna give me a hi-five?"

His grin grows manic as he extends his hand towards a desperately scrabbling Sam.

"I have The Force. I can make you move without even touching you." Dean edges closer while Sam backs away, gagging. "See!"

"Go 'way Dean!" The child yells, hiding behind the back of the armchair. Seeing this has done nothing to stop his brother's advance, he yells, "You're not my best friend 'nymore! I'm gonna send that letter to someone else! 'M gonna send it to Steve even if I don't know where he lives!"

Dean's hand clamps down on Sam's mouth.

"Quit yelling," he hisses. "The landlord'll hear us and kick us out."

He looks down and recalls the mucus covering his hand. He quickly removes it. "Shit, sorry."

Sam doesn't stand around for his apologies. Instead, he runs to the toilet and starts to dry-heave into the ceramic bowl. Dean follows him in and rinses his hands at the sink. He then wets the motel towel and kneels next to the six year old.

"I didn't mean to do that," he says softly. He lifts Sam's face up and wipes it with the worn cotton. "And what letter?"

"At school—not this one, the one we were at 'fore the last one—" Sam murmurs between the swipes, "we had to write a letter to our best friend an' I didn't know who to write to so I wrote it to you."

Dean puts the towel down and sits back on his haunches.

"Can I read it?"

"Nuh uh," Sam says with a pout as he rests his head against the mold-infected bathroom wallpaper. "You put snot on my face. 'M not your friend anymore."

"Aww c'mon, it was an accident!" Dean voice rises before he catches himself.

Sam shoots him a pointed glare.

Dean chooses to ignore it.

"'Sides, what did you write in the letter?"

"Can't remember," says Sam, before standing up and walking out of the toilet. "Hang on, I'll go get it," he calls back over his shoulder, apparently having forgotten Dean's earlier transgression.

The older Winchester smirks and rests back against the edge of the bathtub, his fingers playing idly with the edge of the rug. Sam comes back in with the letter and hands it to him. Dean's eyes skim over the page as he drinks in his brother's adoration. He lets out a snort at the failed attempts to spell _disgusting_ but Castiel doesn't miss the child's insula lighting up as pride floods through his young frame.

"Dya like it?" Sam asks.

Dean nods and hands the letter back.

"I'm never gonna leave you, Sammy."

_x_

It's difficult to watch the shtriga approach the motel window without wishing desperately that there was something he could do to stop it. There is a six year old child sleeping in that room. It feels wrong to stand by and do nothing as this abomination ghosts in and comes to hover over his head. Its toothless mouth opens wide as it starts to breathe in Sam Winchester's life force.

The door handle rattles and he shifts his gaze to the young boy who has just entered. Dean is now peering at the crack of light coming from his brother's room. Castiel finds his wavelength shifting from its usual green to a vibrant blue as panic thrums through him.

This can't be how it ends.

It has all been prophesied. These two boys are the key to the Apocalypse. Their lives must end at the hands of the other's, not a minor paranormal aberration.

_Do I interfere?_

The answer comes short, sharp, like a bolt of electricity through his being. The voice carries an air of authority.

_No._

Castiel remains silent, smarting at the reprimand.

He returns to watching the slow death of a child.

Dean has now picked up the rifle by the door and is holding it up with unsteady hands. The shtriga twists up to look at the intruder and howls. The boy hesitates, his grip fumbling with the forestock.

"Get out of the way!"

John Winchester bursts through the motel room door and starts to shoot at the creature. It reels under the force of the bullets and escapes through the window, leaving John to follow after it in a vain attempt at revenge.

He comes back in and cradles Sam in his arms, calling his name over and over again. "You okay?"

Dean peeks in through the door as he puts the gun down, watching his father fret over his son.

Castiel has always heard that God loved Lucifer the most. He can see that now.

The softness drains out of John's face as he looks upon his shamefaced son. "What happened?"

"I-I-I just went out," Dean stammers out, his sweat-drenched palms clenching in fear.

"What?"

"Just for a second. I'm sorry."

John ignores the apology and continues to press Sam into his chest. "I told you not to leave this room. I told you not to let him out of your sight."

And that's when Castiel sees it. It's small, subtle, far too easy to miss. But it's there. As Dean takes in John's scowl, the disappointment written across his face, the child's vibrant blue soul dims by a fraction.

Dean walks out of the room and doesn't speak for a week.

_x_

"C'mon kid, you've dragged this on long enough."

John takes another drag from his bottle of beer and peers down at his silent son. Dean parts his lips and pushes up his diaphragm. But his larynx refuses to produce any sound, leaving him to let out no more than a wet, ragged breath.

"I need to know if I can trust you," John says. His voice steadily grows harsher as the alcohol hits his bloodstream. "I can't have you not following orders again."

Pastor Jim is on the other side of the wall, trying hard not to listen as he stirs the stew on the gas cooker. He cringes at the man's words.

Castiel is fond of Pastor Jim. The man is God-loving, not God-fearing. His sermons never preach hate and he is accepting of all of God's creatures. Castiel imagines that may be why he hasn't been pushing Dean to speak. The man gives the boy his space and prays to Heaven to give the boy strength to overcome adversity. Little does he know Heaven prays for the same thing.

John sets his beer down on the coffee table and grabs Dean's arm. The grip is tight.

A small groan slips out of Dean's mouth.

"So you can talk..." John mutters, dragging the boy so he's now stood in front of him.

Dean bites his lip.

"Quit that," John barks. "Now, I'm only going to ask you this one more time. There's a hunt in Lewiston, but it may take a while and I'm going to have to leave you and Sammy together for a while. Will you let him out of your sight?"

Dean grips one hand in the other and squeezes hard. Tears pool in his bottom lids. A couple overflow when he sniffles.

"Will you?" John asks again, shaking the child's arm with vigour. Guilt flickers across his face before being swallowed up by his alcohol-laced glare.

Dean coughs and his voice comes out rough from disuse. "N-no sir."

The grip on his arm loosens. John pulls Dean into a hug and gives the boy's head a few clumsy pats.

"You're a good kid," he mumbles.

Dean merely cries harder into his father's shoulder.


	5. Chapter 4

_March 1992_

The final ballot is cast and the fate of a nation is sealed.

The referendum is for Caucasians only, something which infuriates Castiel. But that shouldn't have surprised him, considering his observations of how humans love to cling to power whenever they can.

But the result does.

The white population of South Africa has voted for an end to apartheid. They would rather have a multi-racial government based on true democracy than one where they hold all the cards.

It has been painful to watch people of colour being dragged out of 'white only' areas. It has been painful to watch the government spend ten times as much on the education of the descendants of Europeans than that of Africans. It has been painful to watch native women struggle to feed their children, finding it impossible to gain employment while burdened with both racial and gender discrimination.

But this gives Castiel something he hasn't had in a while. This gives him hope.

And it's the way these social primates can give him this that makes Castiel wonder if this is why God loved them so much.

While angels may be divine and holy and pure, they are so because they can only follow orders. When they are required to make a decision, they seek Revelation and obey it to the letter. Those who do not are cast down and not spoken of again. But these creatures in front of him, they pick whether they want to do good or evil. And it is this choice, this exertion of free will, which makes them beautiful.

The _Cape Times _press prints 'YES, IT'S YES!' on the front pages of its newspaper. The people of South Africa move one step closer to equality.

In a rare moment, Castiel feels nothing but pride for God's creations.

_x_

Dean Winchester cuts through the water with smooth, powerful strokes, pushing himself on towards the finish line.

"Thirty three minutes and nine seconds. Well done." The gym coach yells out the time. Melissa Cowling, the current captain of the school swimming team, writes it down.

Dean pulls himself out of the swimming pool and pads over to the changing rooms. He pauses near the door, taking in the sparsely clad women, before going inside.

The boy changes efficiently, his father's army training coming into use, and he's dry and dressed less than five minutes. He comes outside to find the coach, Mr. Larkin, waiting for him.

"Dean, how would you like to join the school training squad? Your time's just about good enough to get in." The man's manner is brusque. He doesn't appear to care if Dean agrees or not.

But Castiel can feel Dean's heart rate rise as a little endorphin rush kicks through his body. Nonetheless, his tone is uncertain. "I dunno. I mean, I've not got much practice in swimming pools an' stuff."

"Where did you learn to swim like that then?" the coach asks, one eyebrow teetering above the other.

Dean shrugs. He looks lost in thought. He is likely thinking of the training sessions in freezing Nevada lakes from three autumns ago, where his father taught him to swim. The first couple of lessons had been about paddling and swimming. By the third they were about saving drowning people.

"Just holidays I guess," he replies.

Mr. Larkin doesn't seem to care about the child's non-committal answer. He appears to be too busy checking the time. "The training squad meets on Thursdays after school for an hour. If you decide to go for it I hope to see you there," he says as he starts to walk away.

Dean swallows as the man leaves. He then grimaces and follows him out of the building.

_x_

"Coach Larkin would like me to join the school swimming squad," Dean says, putting this week's grocery shopping down on the motel table. He shuffles the newspaper clippings together to make room to sort out the cans of beans from the cans of soup. The recent loss of both of Sam's premolars together have made solid foods a temporary challenge.

John Winchester grunts and continues to stare at a library book on tulpas.

"They train on Thursday evenings," Dean continues, his tone still light enough to convey no more than casual disinterest.

"Did you move my papers?" the elder Winchester asks, looking up to the dining table where Dean is currently pulling out cartons of milk.

Dean's hands still. "Sorry, I'll put 'em back."

John grunts again.

Dean puts the papers back as best he can, shifting the cans and cartons to the kitchenette worktop instead. Once done, he wipes him palms on the sides of his jeans and comes to hover by his father.

Castiel watches the child's heart pound away in his chest. He wonders if Michael always feels this nervous when asking the Father he loves so much for a favour.

"So, can I join?" Dean's voice barely rises above a whisper.

John looks up and something softens in his tired, drained expression. "'Course," he replies before clearing his throat and continuing a little louder. "Make sure Sammy gets dinner on time though."

After all, Lucifer was always God's favourite.

Nevertheless, just as Dean is slipping out of the door, he mumbles "Thanks."

Castiel never thought he could be in awe of a thirteen year old boy. It seems he was wrong.

_x_

In the three months and two weeks Dean Winchester trains and competes with the Truman Middle School swimming team, Sam does not miss a single session. Without fail, his shaggy mop of hair can be spotted in the spectator seats by the school swimming pool every Thursday afternoon.

"Get going, Dean! You have to turn quicker," the coach yells at him from the side.

Dean mistimes an underwater somersault and water floods up the boy's nose. He thrashes his arms and his head surfaces, gasping and coughing.

Coach Larkin rolls his eyes and kneels by the side of the pool, next to the panting boy. "Kid, you're trying, I can see that. But you've gotta start breathing out through your nose as you do the flip."

The boy's head bobs as he treads water.

"Try again," says the teacher.

Dean pushes off the edge and continues with the front crawl. He reaches the other side and executes a far better turn, breathing out and pushing off the wall smoothly. Sam smiles at this from the benches and returns his gaze to his homework.

There's something aggressive in the way Dean swims. It is as if he's there to prove a point. He's neither the most graceful nor the most streamlined swimmer. But he's fast. Quick, strong muscles that keep pumping even after they have started cramping from the build-up of lactic acid.

Though Noah Larkin does not appear to be the sort that will admit it, Castiel can see from his broad chest and quiet smile that he takes pride in the young swimmer.

Castiel watches the young heart pumping faster and faster as Dean sprints towards the finish on his final lap.

He kicks out one last time and overshoots. Castiel can _feel _the tendons straining and the cartilage grinding as first Dean's head, then his shoulders, collide with the edge of the pool.

A lone hand scrabbles at the surface of the water. It eventually finds the edge and the kid hauls his sore, spluttering body out onto the side.

There's a smattering of laughter from the swimmers who have finished their laps and are now sitting by the edge of the benches. Sam Winchester shoots them a glare before standing up and closing the English notebook on his lap. He walks over to the edge of the seating area and stares at Dean until the kid meets his gaze.

This feels too private, too intimate, for Castiel to be observing.

Dean turns around slowly with a groan as his left shoulder joint cracks. He looks up at Sam, takes in scrunched brow and taut frown. He replies with a pout and a quick wink. Sam sighs and purses his lips before returning to his seat.

There's an odd feeling thrumming through Castiel. It takes him a second to recognise it. But once he does, the emotion grows and gnaws at him.

He's _jealous_.

Thousands upon thousands of angel siblings and yet not one he can have a wordless conversation with.

But envy is a sin and he is an angel of the Lord after all. He returns to watching with as much indifference as he can muster.

"Apart from that ending there, I'd say that last bit wasn't bad at all," says Coach Larkin. He then gestures for the swimmers to gather around him before he crouches down and continues. "We've done well to get through the local heat of the inter-schools championship but now it's the regional heat and trust me, this one's going to be tough." The man grunts as he shifts his weight from one foot to another. "They're all excellent teams. They're well-trained and as our local heat was one of the last ones, they've had more time to prepare than us. So we've got to get our act together. I can only take four of you this time so some of you won't make the final team."

Castiel catches the quiet sound of a book closing and looks up to see Sam closing his copy of _Oliver Twist _to listen in to the coach's talk.

"Tom, Ellie, you're both on the team. As for the other two places, I've narrowed it down to Sheelah, Luke, Raj, Dean and Katie. To speed things up, you lot are going to swim a hundred metres and the top two are on the team." Larkin says. He stands up to the sound of popping knees.

The other four swimmers are already starting to position themselves at the edge of the pool, but Dean looks over to the benches first. Sam is there, shooting him a small thumbs up that he hides before anyone else can see his display of affection. Dean grins in return and takes his place next to the other competitors.

The whistle blow and they're off. They dip in and out of the water as fast as they can, cutting through the water's resistance. Lungs gasping, hearts pounding, muscles screaming; it's easy to forget that these are mere pre-teens competing for a position on their school swimming team. Each swimmer carries with them a heady mix of hope and pride and ambition.

Sheelah is the first to complete the hundred metres. She pulls herself out with a cocky smirk and goes to sit with Tom and Ellie.

Close behind her are Raj and Dean. They've been tied for most of the race, but it is in these last few moments Dean pushes forward against the cramping muscles and dull pounding in his head to surge ahead and touch the wall first. He flops over the edge of the pool and gasps like a fish out of water.

The performance is remarkably like that of that one fish Castiel was warned not to step on.

God has big plans for this creature too.

But watching the child glow with pride as the coach pronounces him a member of the school team makes Castiel wonder if this really is any more than an ordinary little boy. Maybe someone higher up made a mistake. Because this insignificant bipedal primate with his petty dreams of swimming in the regional championships cannot possibly be the vessel of the Light.

A little part of Castiel wonders if there will be a price to his naivety.

_x_

The sight before him is probably the closest Dean Winchester has come to behaving like a true Righteous Man.

The boy is currently kneeling by the side of his motel bed. He occasionally steals furtive glances at the two prone bodies on the other two beds to make sure they haven't woken up. Once convinced, he clasps his hands together and starts to whisper.

"Uh, dear God—wow, that feels _way _too much like 'dear diary'. Anyway, God, if you're listening, I was wondering if you could do me a favour. I mean, I get I'm probably not someone you'd do favours for. I steal shit and I often think 'holy fucking Jesus' when I stub my toe, so I get it if you don't really want to do me a favour. But, y'know, if you feel in the mood..."

The kid looks up at his brother and father again before continuing a little faster.

"There's this swimming competition coming up. It's in three days and it's the regional finals. Our school's never got this far, but it'd be _awesome _if we won. Man, it'd be better than that _Playboy _I found in Dad's duffle—shit, I didn't mean to mention that. Sorry, God. But it'd still be good, y'know? I don't tend to win things, that's more Sammy's department. I'm kinda dumb in school so I don't get picked for many competitions. But I'm tryin' really hard for this one. 'N' the coach said he'd buy us ice cream if we won, so there's that too."

John lets out a muffled grunt and starts turning in his sleep.

"'Kay, I gotta go now, I dunno if you actually exist, but it'd be cool if you were listening." He stops, unsure of how to end, then tags on a hurried "amen" and slides back into bed.

Castiel hovers over the child's bed, noting the way his hands are still clasped together under the covers.

He wants to tell the boy that God exists.

He wants to tell the boy that God doesn't care.

_x_

If Castiel didn't know better, he might have wondered if Fate didn't entertain a particularly cruel sense of humour. But Castiel knows the three sisters—Atropos, Clotho and Lachesis—and 'irony' is merely a string of letters to them.

But knowing that the scene in front of him isn't merely Fate's idea of a joke doesn't make it any easier to watch.

"What?" asks Dean, his mouth agape in a mimicry of that fish again.

"I said 'pack your stuff', we're moving tomorrow," John says.

Sam crosses his arms in an act of defiance that Castiel isn't sure the eight year old can follow through with. "Why?"

"Because I said so." John's voice is gruff. He picks up a duffle and throws it at the child, not bothering to check if the boy caught it. "The rent's due and the landlord won't get off my back. Plus, I've found a job somewhere else."

Sam watches the look that passes between Dean and John. "Are you trying to _sell stuff_? Is that what this new job is?"

John's gaze hardens into a glare as Dean coughs and scratches the back of his neck. The oldest Winchester turns to face the youngest and asks, "Yeah, why?"

"What are you going to sell?"

"Odds and ends. What's with the third degree?"

"When will you quit lying to me?"

The child's voice is quiet and bitter. It slices through the air and finds its target. John turns round to face Dean, fists clenched and nostrils flaring.

"He knows?" John breathes out with barely controlled rage.

Sam huffs, uncrosses his arms, then crosses them again. "Yeah. I know. How long did you think you could hide it from me? You don't sell stuff; you hunt monsters. That's why we move so much. That's why we have so much salt even though we barely cook _anything_. That's why Dean sleeps with a gun under his pillow—"

"That's enough," John interjects. "When did you find out?"

"Last Christmas," says Sam. "You remember last Christmas? Oh no, wait, _you weren't there_."

Dean and John growl "Sam" in unison.

"C'mon Sam, Dad was busy," says Dean.

Castiel watches the way the thirteen year old slowly manoeuvres himself so he's between his brother and his father.

"You shouldn't have to steal presents at Christmas, Dean! You shouldn't have to—"

John cut off his son once again. "You stole presents?"

Dean stares at the floor. His left hand squeezes his right until the blood flow has been restricted long enough to cause a tingling sensation humans seem to have taken to calling _pins and needles_.

"'Was Chr'stm's," the boy mumbles.

"What?" barks John.

"It was Christmas."

"And you think that's more important than keeping a low profile? More important than not getting CPS involved?" John advances towards Dean, who appears to be busy trying to control the light tremors that are coursing through him.

Castiel wonders if archangels feel fear when conversing with their Father.

"You want that? You want CPS to get a hold of you and your brother? You want me to go to jail?"

"No, sir," Dean whispers at the ground.

"Then why did you do it?"

The kid shrugs.

"I want an answer, Dean."

"Don't know, sir."

John sighs and runs a hand over his unkempt hair, drags it over his tired face. "Ten laps around the parking lot. Now."

It appears Dean is as receptive to John's orders as Michael was to God's. There is barely a second's hesitation before the boy is out of the door and breaking into a run on the car park tarmac.

In the room, Sam turns to his father and looks up with wide, beseeching eyes. "Please don't tire him out. He's got a swimming competition tomorrow and—"

"We're moving tomorrow. You'd better start packing."

"Dad! Dean really wants this! He's been training for the last three months and he's got really good and—"

"Sam, stop it. This spirit always comes at the same time every year and if we miss it we're going to have to wait another year."

"You could at least ask Dean if he wants to stay. You never let us pick what we want to do!" cries Sam.

"Dean knows his priorities. He knows the job comes before everything else."

"You ever asked him?"

John stops at that. He crinkles his brow and stares at Sam, as if he's measuring up his son, before sighing and letting his shoulders drop. "Fine." He walks over to the motel door, yanks it open and calls Dean's name.

The boy slows down and jogs over to the door. "Yeah?"

"We're moving tomorrow. You got a problem with that?"

Castiel watches Dean's Adam's apple bob as he swallows. He doesn't answer.

"You got something you need to do that's more important than the job?"

Dean's eyes swing to and fro between Sam and John. He finally settles on the latter.

"No, sir."

Sam gasps in indignation. John's grin can only be described as smug.

"Good," says John. "See that, Sam?"

He leaves before he can catch Sam's answer. But Castiel can hear it. And it should make him happy. It's another sign that cracks are forming, the plan is working. But all it does is twist him up inside.

"I can't believe he thinks you're a superhero."

_x_

_April 1993_

There is nothing more tragic than a child who stops dreaming.

_Let it go, brother._

The voice is unmistakably Uriel's. Castiel can sense the angel next to him as the edges of their waves start to superpose.

_Let it go._

Castiel tears his eyes away from the two brothers dining on a grimy motel table and stares at endless summer sky. It has been a year since the incident with the swimming team. Fourteen different schools, and yet Dean Winchester has never joined another club. He stands and he watches as his brother debates and runs and competes. But the moment the teachers approach him, he hides his longing under a thick layer of cool indifference.

The Righteous Man only ever comes alive when he's killing.

_I can't let it go. They're... They're breaking him._

_He's following orders like a true vessel of the Light should._

And Castiel wants to agree. He really does.

But there's a little part of him that refuses to believe that this is truly the Will of the Maker.

Why create free will when what you desire is blind obedience?

_Come, brother. Let us leave these hairless apes for a while. It does no good to observe them for too long._

Castiel takes one last look at the two boys washing dishes together, and follows before his thoughts become any more blasphemous.


	6. Chapter 5

**Author Note:** I'm very sorry for the late update, I didn't have an internet connection for the last five days.

As always, I'd really appreciate it if you left me your thoughts!

_x_

_September 1995_

Castiel doesn't know quite when he returned to watching the Winchesters again, but try as he might, he doesn't seem to be able to stay away.

He tries to tell himself it's because of their Biblical destinies, written in stone from well before they were born. But he's never been a very capable liar. In his heart, he knows it's because the descendants of Cain and Abel, the vessels of the two most powerful of God's creations, are so remarkably _ordinary._

"C'mon Dean! If you're so tough, why don't you ever say anything back?" Sam yells at Dean's back as the older boy walks off.

"Because they're asswipes. Who gives a shit about what they have to say?" Dean throws back over his shoulder. He then turns the corner and heads into home room.

Sam stands for a moment, glaring daggers into his brother's back, then clenches his fists and strides off in the opposite direction.

"Ah, Dean, so glad you could join us." The teacher's smile seems taut.

Castiel finds the man odd. He often speaks to Dean as if the boy is unintelligent and struggles with long words, all while wearing a smile that never reaches his eyes.

"The pleasure's all mine," says Dean. He slouches in his chair and leans back as if sleeping.

"If I could have your precious time for a second, Mr. Winchester," Dean cracks an eye open and peers at the man's smirk. "I'd like to inform you that the booklets about applying to Yale have run out. There are, however, a few flyers advertising job opportunities in the local garage left that may be of interest to you?"

The boy sat behind Dean snickers. It's Jim Hattfield, the same boy the brothers had been arguing about earlier. Castiel knows little about this child, merely that his father is the owner of the largest pet store chain in the state.

He leans forward and whispers, "Hey, Dean, want me to ask my dad if there are any vacancies in his shops for you? It'd only be cleaning out animal shit, stuff you could manage, though you might struggle a bit with filling in the application form."

"Nah, I'm good, thanks," Dean calls over to the teacher, who looks mildly disappointed at the kid's nonchalant tone. He then picks up a pen and leans over his desk.

A minute later, the boy straightens up and rips one of the pages out of his school diary, folds it up, and passes it behind him. Jim takes it and straightens out the folds. He growls and kicks the chair in front, to which Dean sticks up his middle finger over his shoulder.

The sheet of paper lies on the boy's desk. It contains a crudely drawn penis with an arrow labelling it 'YOU'.

_x_

"You go on ahead, I'll meet you at the car."

Dean nods and starts to walk away. He doesn't go straight to the car. Instead, he wanders over to the locker area next to the canteen. Maria Serrano is currently stood next to her locker, removing a couple of folders for the night. Dean taps her on the shoulder, grins, and proceeds to stick his tongue down her throat. Castiel moves away, feeling distinctly awkward at their expressive display of pubescent hormones.

Instead, he finds himself watching the younger brother. Sam Winchester is now sat in the guidance counsellor's office, his palms leaving sweaty hand prints on his jeans.

"I, uh, was wondering if I could have some booklets about, uh, colleges," he mumbles. He then stares down at his shoes.

She stares at the child in front of her and tries to school her features. "Aren't you a little young for college? Are you sure you wouldn't like some help picking high school electives at this point?"

"No, I've got them sorted. I'd really like to have some information on colleges, if that's okay," says Sam. He looks up and jerks his cheeks into a mimicry of his usual, bright smile.

The guidance counsellor lets out a small sigh. "Okay then, what sorts of colleges do you want to look at?"

"Anything, I dunno."

"Alright, I'll give you a range of different ones, from Ivy League to local community colleges. You have a look through them at home and come back if you want anything more specific."

"Okay, thanks." Sam glances down at his watch as the guidance counsellor collates the booklets.

Sam takes them with shaking hands and immediately stuffs them into his satchel. He takes a deep breath that seems to do little to calm his racing heart before getting up and heading over to the door. He pauses for a second and looks around the room at the posters of smiling undergraduates in varsity jackets. With a bitten back sigh, he exits.

The child has barely taken two steps down the corridor when there's a whistle from behind.

Sam spins around to see Jim Hattfield and his cronies stood leaning against the wall.

"Tell your brother I got his note. I didn't know he knew how to write," Jim's voice floats over, arrogant and taunting. The boy stood next to him laughs.

Castiel has seen children throw jibes at Sam before. Considering this is the boy with the demon blood, he stays surprisingly calm.

But not this time.

Sam marches over to the bully and jabs a finger in his chest. The residual darkness left from the quarter-ounce of blood Azazel fed the boy curls itself around the boy's bright soul.

"Why don't you leave my brother the fuck alone?"

"Aww, look at retard-boy's brother trying to stick up for him." Jim snorts at his own joke and leans down so he's at Sam's height. "Go on, you can tell me... Do you have to change his diaper too? Read the newspaper to him? Feed him so he doesn't make a mess—"

Sam's fist swings into the boy's face. Blood comes pouring out of his nose.

"Fuck!" Jim cries, trying to stem the flow with his hand. "D'kid's a 'tard like 'is brother."

Sam looks from his hand to the boy's face. Guilt floods across his face as the momentary darkness releases the boy's soul. Sam starts to walk away.

Hattfield's friends take off after him, at which point the kid breaks into a run.

He doesn't get very far.

Twenty metres down the hall, the boys pin Sam to the ground and start kicking at his ribs. The boy curls up, waits for the pace to die down, then lashes out and grabs an ankle. The owner of the ankle, a wiry young man named Lewis, falls with a thud. Sam then scrambles to his feet and uses the distraction to start running towards the main entrance.

He makes it this time.

"Sam!" Dean yells, opening the passenger seat door so Sam can barrel straight in. "What the hell happened?"

"Just drive!" Sam looks out of the window to see Hattfield stumbling down the steps, hand still clasped to his nose. The younger Winchester spins around and starts hitting the dashboard repeatedly. "Drive the fucking car, Dean!"

"Alright! Back off!" Dean steps on the gas and the car jumps forward, leaving tire marks and the smell of gasoline in its wake.

He glances once over his shoulder before returning his eyes to the road.

"Shit, was that Jim Hattfield?"

Sam remains silent. Castiel has a suspicion that this is one of their silent conversations. Dean appears to have interpreted this lack of an answer as an affirmative.

"Fuck, Sam! You broke his nose!" Dean slams his palms against the steering wheel. "Why the hell did you do that?"

"He was saying stuff and it made me mad..." Sam trails off, staring out of the window.

"What could he possibly have said that made you break his nose?"

"Just, stuff."

"What stuff?"

"Stuff, Dean!"

"Yeah, and I'm asking what stuff?"

Sam whips his head around. There are tears beading in his eyes. "He called you a retard, Dean!"

Dean stills. A microexpression flashes across the teenager's face. It lasts about one twentieth of a second but that's long enough for Castiel to read it.

The boy's hurt.

But before his brother can catch the twitch, Dean swallows down the emotion and schools his face into an expression of cool neutrality once again.

"You seriously telling me you started a fight with one of the richest kids in school because he called me stupid?" Dean ignores his brother's protests and continues. "Dad goes on and on about how we have to keep a low profile and you go and break Hattfield's nose. Great. Fucking awesome."

"What was I supposed to do? Listen to him go on about how you're illiterate?"

"For fuck's sake, I'm failing half my classes so it's not like he's wrong! So, yes. You put up with it. You don't break the guy's nose and then have his big-shot daddy come into school."

The rest of the drive up to the motel is in silence, including the quick stop for gas. Dean tries to drive as fast as he can without drawing the attentions of the local police.

Castiel wishes he could tell him it's futile.

He can see Mark Hattfield barging into the vice-principal's office, hear his demands to speak to the father of the child that attacked his son. He can see the meek vice-principal's attempts to calm the man down, before finally reaching for the phone and dialling the number John hurriedly scrawled out on the admissions forms weeks ago. He can see she's trying to keep calm, requesting John come in to speak about Sam's behaviour as soon as possible. He watches as Hattfield wrestles the phone from her grip and shouts his opinions on John Winchester's parenting skills down the line.

It doesn't matter how fast the Impala goes, they cannot win this.

Five minutes later, Dean pulls into their designated spot in the motel parking lot. Sam storms inside as Dean locks the car.

He enters to find John Winchester leaning against the kitchenette. One hand is lying idly over the telephone he put down moments ago.

"I got a call from school just now. You wouldn't happen to know about that, would you?" His voice is clipped.

Sam's grip tightens on his school bag as adrenaline starts starts flooding through his body once again.

"I—just hear me out," he begins.

"Hear you out on what?" John's voice starts to rise. "On how you managed to get yourself suspended? On why I have some self-righteous prick yelling down the phone at me about how I shouldn't have kids if I don't know how to raise them?"

Dean steps inside. He takes one look at the other two Winchesters and immediately steps in between them. He puts his hand on his father's shoulder in what Castiel assumes is a futile attempt to calm the man down.

"Dad, the guy was a jerk. The kid needed his nose broken anyway—"

"Don't you support him in this," John says, pushing Dean's arm away. "And where were you when this was happening? How many times do I have to tell you to look after your little brother, boy?"

"I'm not some little kid anymore! I don't need Dean to babysit me," shouts Sam.

"Oh yeah, because I can see how sensible and mature you are."

"I don't know what came over me, okay? I just... I just got really mad when he started talking shit about Dean. Like really, _really _mad."

It seems to be a day of microexpressions. Fear flashes across John's face and then it's gone.

"Dean, go clean the guns. Sam, you've been suspended for three days. You're not allowed to leave this room for the next three days unless it's for training. Do you understand?"

Dean shuffles over to the dining table. He grabs a shotgun in one hand, a cleaning rag in the other, and gets to work.

Sam continues to glare at his father.

"I said 'do you understand?'" John growls at his son.

Sam crosses his arms. "No Dad, I don't. You tell me we help people, we stand up for them. But then you yell at me when I do that. So no, I don't get it. I—"

"This kid, George Hattfield, he look like an evil monster to you? Was he a ghost? A spirit? A werewolf?" John steps up to the youngest Winchester until there are mere inches between them.

Sam gives a tiny twitch of the head in the negative.

"Then you don't go breaking his goddamn nose!"

Castiel can see Dean's hand curling reflexively around the barrel of the gun. A part of him is glad he cannot read the boy's mind.

"Maybe I wouldn't have to if you'd taught Dean how to stand up for himself!" Sam yells back.

Dean coughs. "I'm right here, you know?"

The oldest and youngest Winchesters ignore him. Instead, they continue to glare at each other until John steps back. He looks drained.

"Look, Sammy, you're a smart kid. You know why we do this. And you know why it's a bad idea to draw attention to yourself. I can't be dealing with parent-teacher conferences when I should be doing research."

"You don't go to my parent-teacher conferences anyway."

"Yeah, I do—" he stops and frowns. Neurons fire rapidly through his limbic system as the man frantically scans through memories. "Remember the one where they showed me the pictures you'd drawn?"

Sam scoffs. "That was when I was _six. _Admit it, you never cared about what I did in school. Not when I got on the mathlete team, not even when I won that Division Championship Soccer trophy. All you care about is if I can do research for the hunt. That's all I am to you: a tool."

With that, Sam storms into the cramped motel bathroom. The door locks with an audible click. The boy then curls up by the side of the sink. His hands make their way into his school bag and come to rest on the flyers from the guidance counsellor. A sob breaks through and he cries.

Outside, John sighs and rubs the back of his neck. He opens the refrigerator, pulls out a beer and picks up his journal once again. The trembling in his hands only still once the first couple of beers have diffused into his bloodstream.

Castiel is meant to see pure evil in the vessel of Darkness. He is meant to see only virtue in the Righteous Man. He is meant to see all that is Good and Right in the Father.

Castiel cannot understand why all he can see is a revenge-obsessed alcoholic who is breaking one son while pushing the other away.

He can see destiny playing out exactly as it was planned. Two boys. The dutiful and the rebellious. But there is so much more to them. So much more that will be lost when they become puppets at the hands of their angelic masters.

And that is when Castiel realises he no longer wants Heaven to succeed.


	7. Chapter 6

_June 1996_

_No, Castiel._

If Castiel had a vessel, he'd probably be clasping his hands right now.

_Please! He might run out of money. He might starve._

He knows these are unlikely scenarios. The Winchester Emergency Stash of a hundred and fifty dollars is currently rolled up in Sam's duffle. The boy hefts the bag over the windowsill and lets it drop down onto the cement below. He then silently follows.

John Winchester is currently five hundred miles away, locked in the deadly embrace of a vampire. Meanwhile, Dean is snoring loudly from inside the motel room, dreaming about Milly Sands and her long, tanned legs. There is no one to stop Sam's escape.

No one but Castiel.

_What if he dies? He's merely a child! I could take a vessel and talk to him. I could get him to come back—_

Uriel's voice is strained. It appears his patience is wearing thin.

_Do not forget that this is the vessel of Lucifer. He was born to betray those who love him the most. Divert your mind, brother. It's what the Lord would want._

And Castiel tries. He looks at lavenders and tries to think about the intricate weaving of cellulose in plant cells walls-

_(Dean waking up and turning to see an empty bed. Calling his brother's name over and over again as he checks the bathroom, the motel reception, the parking lot.)_

_-_the way DNA divides so accurately despite the genetic code being billions of characters long-

_(Dean checking for Sam's belongings, finding his duffle is gone. Lifting up the couch cushion to find the emergency stash is also gone.)_

_-_how incredible it is that the force that causes planets to orbit and galaxies to form is forty-two orders of magnitude weaker than light-

_(Sam Winchester gets off at the last stop. It's as far as he dares to go. A quick stop in a local 7-Eleven, followed by a two mile trek lands him in the mountainous forests. A few hundred feet more lead him to an abandoned cabin.)_

-the way a hummingbird's heart often beats so fast that merely a low buzz can be heard-

_(The elder Winchester is standing in a grimy phone booth advertising 'Good Times with Mistress Macy' along its walls. He slots another quarter in and dials the number of the motel John has left. He asks for room 205. The phone rings but once again no one picks up.)_

-how tiny flakes of snow can form vast ice sheets given time-

_(The younger Winchester throws the ball again and laughs as the dog scampers after it with a bark. He reaches into his packet of Funyuns, pulls out a handful, and pops them all in his mouth in one go.)_

-the innate beauty of proteins, held together with nothing but hydrogen bonds, disulphide bridges, and millennia of evolution-

_(Two weeks of frantic searching. The meagre amount of money he has left being spent on bus fares rather than food. Breaking his last five-dollar bill into quarters. Eyeing the platefuls of fries and burgers as he makes his way across the diner to the phone booth.)_

_-_the bizarre nature of human interactions. While in most places a nod means 'yes', in Greece it is used to indicate refusal-

_("Hello, Pastor Jim? It's Dean, have you heard from Dad recently?" A pause, then, "No, no, it's nothing, just wondering." He hangs up.)_

-the impressive attempt at maximising the rate of diffusion in accordance with Fick's Law in the small intestine, what with the villi containing microvilli, making the total surface area over two thousand square metres-

_(Another coin rolls down the slot and activates the phone. "Uncle Bobby? You, uh, you heard from my Dad by any chance?" The slump of the shoulders at the reply. Holding the phone away as he coughs into his sleeve. Bringing it back. "Yeah-no, we're fine. Was jus' wonderin' though... Has, uh, Sam contacted you or anything? What? No, 'course he's alright, just thought he might go to you to get some couple's therapy." He holds the phone at arm's length and lets out a long, shuddering sigh. "What was that? Nah, I haven't been mean to him, he's just pansy-assed, that's all.")_

_-_how alcohol acts as a depressant by opening neuroreceptor channels for inhibitory synapses, thus increasing reaction times-

_(Dean takes another pull from the bottle, the last of his money draining down his throat. He turns to face the empty bed once again. Tears start rolling down his cheeks. He takes another generous sip.)_

-how emotions like love, which are considered so good and holy, can break a man in ways hate simply cannot-

_(The motel number again. "Can I leave him a message?" A long pause. Dean leans his head against the cool glass and closes his eyes. The phone cuts off. He uses gaunt fingers to pop in his last three dimes and redials. "Sorry, yeah. Thanks. If you could just pass this on? 'Dad, it's Dean. It's Sam. It's urgent. I don't know where he is or anything. I don't-I don't even know if he's-" The phone cuts off again. Dean lets his hand drop the telephone into its holder. "Alive.")_

_-_how ordinary interactions can hold deep meaning. History isn't written by kings and conquests, but by people and their dreams-

_(Sam absent-mindedly taps out the tune of _Smoke on the Water _on the coffee table. His eyes are glazed over with boredom. He reaches over and pulls out yet another Funyun. He washes it down with a mouthful of Mr. Pibb and a grimace.)_

Castiel cannot do it anymore. He needs to see how this ends. He needs to see _some _proof that these boys are merely caricatures of the angels that will one day possess them. He needs to stop caring.

The motel door opens. John Winchester steps inside, his face ashen.

"What happened to Sam?" he growls.

"I don't know where he is or who's taken him. He took some money and his things but he hasn't called or anything—"Dean stammers, backing up under his father's gaze.

"Why did he leave? What did you do?" John's voice is menacing.

Castiel can see Dean is frantically trying to check for signs of intoxication but he knows the boy won't find any. The man is currently the most sober he's been in months.

"I-I didn't do anything, I swear! He just left!"

John strides over. Dean continues to back up until he can feel the wall behind him. "What were you doing when this happened?"

"I-I was asleep," the boy mumbles. The neurons in his ventromedial prefrontal cortex start firing rapidly as guilt floods through him.

Dean doesn't see the punch coming. It lands squarely on his jaw and knocks the boy down onto his side.

_Father, please Father, stop this. This cannot be Your will. This boy is an innocent. How can you expect me to stand by and watch this?_

Castiel knows he's screaming. He knows the other angels can hear him, some of them are even starting to whisper amongst themselves. But he cannot bring himself to care.

He looks down to see John Winchester pulling his son up by the collar before shoving him against the wall.

"You were asleep? You have one job! One simple job, and you fail over and over again!"

Dean curls up on himself at the words. John grips his jaw and tilts his head up until Dean's wide eyes meet his own.

"First the shtriga and now this? My son ran away because you're so bad at being an older brother he felt he'd be better off on his own?" John drives his fist into the boy's emaciated ribcage. Dean splutters and crouches down on the floor. John hauls him up once more. "You got anything to say for yourself?"

Dean takes in a deep, wheezing breath. He shakes his head.

"Answer me, boy!" Another punch to the face. The sickening crunch of the ethmoid bone breaking, followed by the distinctly _wet _sound of blood being pulled back up the boy's nostrils.

"No, sir," whispers Dean.

John lets go at that. He steps back and looks over his son. The rage drains out of his face and shame takes its place.

"Get yourself cleaned up and come meet me in the car," John throws over his shoulder as he walks out of the room again.

It's wrong and it's blasphemous, but Castiel wants nothing more than for Dean to run away too. Maybe this can be their escape. Maybe this way they can be free to just be them. Not mere tools in a Biblical Holy War, but simply two boys who deserve better.

But as it is in Heaven, so it must be on Earth. Dean Winchester washes the blood off his face, towels it dry, and walks over to the Impala. Castiel catches Dean's wince as he ducks and slides himself into the car.

He thinks about a quote from the Talmud: _Whoever destroys a soul, it is considered as if he destroyed an entire world._

Castiel looks upon Dean's once-bright soul, now having dwindled to no more than a flicker. He wonders why in all battles, it is the innocents who pay dearest.

_x_

When Dean and John come home the next day, they find Sam sitting on the doorstep.

Castiel expects Dean to yell, curse, maybe even fight with Sam. But all he does is stride over to the thirteen year old and wrap him up in his long, thin arms.

"You're okay," he whispers into his brother's hair. "You're okay."

Sam squirms in his arms until Dean lets go. "I started missing you guys—"

He stops when he catches sight of the bruise across Dean's jaw and his misshapen nose.

"How did that happen?"

Dean's eyes flit up to look at John, before returning to Sam. He coughs. "Got into a fight at school. The guy caught me kissing his girlfriend, probably kinda deserved it." He tries to grin but it quickly turns into a grimace as capillaries start bursting open once again along his jaw.

Sam tries to hide his smile. "Jerk."

"Bitch."

John's face twitches at their exchange. He drags a hand down his face and rubs at the back of his neck, his eyes never leaving the dark purple blotch on his son's face. He fishes out the keys to the Impala once again and unlocks the door.

"Boys, get in the car. We're going to Bobby's for a while."

Sam looks like he might be about to glare at his father for the order, but then seems to think better of it. He shuffles onto the back seat without a word.

Dean starts walking around to the passenger seat when John grabs his arm. "'M sorry," he mumbles, then lets go.

It appears even the Father makes mistakes. Mistakes that cannot be solved with one quick apology and an empty bottle of vodka. But, as always, the Dutiful Son forgives.

"S'fine," Dean grunts as he slides past. He stands with his fingers on the door handle and looks over the top of the car towards his father. "Kinda deserved it."

John bites the inside of his lip and doesn't reply.

_x_

Sam sits on the edge of his bed and pulls one of the walking boots onto his lap. The laces were knotted tightly last year and haven't been opened since. But recently, Sam finds he can no longer slide his rapidly growing feet in anymore, and some adjustment is needed. He picks at the dirt-encrusted knot with short, stubby nails.

"Dean, if you were going to be shipwrecked onto a deserted island, what five things would you take with you?"

Downstairs, Bobby can be heard knocking over demonology tomes and cursing. Dean grins at the older man's groan of "balls" before looking back at Sam.

"I dunno. Couple of Batman comics, a TV, a copy of Cool Hand Luke, and the Christmas edition of _Busty Asian Beauties._" Dean spots Sam's raised eyebrows and says, "What? Those elves were kinky!"

"Seriously? You're on a deserted island, you're running out of food and water, and you're going to _masturbate_?"

Dean shrugs. "Guy's gotta have some downtime." Dean flips over from his back onto his stomach. He groans at the contact.

Sam looks up from the laces in his hands. "You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, just ate a lot," Dean spits out through gritted teeth.

Sam frowns at that. Castiel would hazard a guess that Sam has seen through that blatant lie. But before he can question it, Dean speaks up again.

"What would your five things be? Textbooks?"

Sam huffs at that. "Actually, they'd be a dinghy, a paddle, a spile for fresh water while on this island, and a fishing rod for food." Sam counts off the items with his fingers, pausing when he falls one short. "Oh, and an umbrella. That way you can have shade during the day and maybe even collect rainwater at night."

"Jesus, you really thought through this one."

"Yeah, well, I'm not going to sit there and wait to die," Sam says absentmindedly, his fingers finally managing to work loose one knot.

He doesn't see the mild look of hurt that flashes across Dean's face at the comment.

"Either of you boys want to come help me fix up this Chevy Beretta?" Bobby calls up the stairs.

Dean rolls off the bed with a quiet "I'll go, s'better than sitting here and waiting to die."

Sam catches Dean's disappointment this time. "Aww, c'mon! I didn't mean it like that! You-your choices were good—"

Dean gets up and heads downstairs before Sam can finish.

_x_

"Hey, Bobby," Dean says, spinning the box wrench around a nut, "if you were stranded on a desert island by yourself, what five things would you take?"

Bobby slides out from underneath the car. "Huh? Why?"

"Just wondering." He looks down to see Bobby staring at the sky. "It doesn't matter, I'm wasting your time. 'S a stupid question anyway."

"Hang on, 'm thinking," Bobby grunts.

"Don't strain yourself."

Bobby rolls his eyes before tilting his head to look at Dean. "Let's see... A bottle of Jim Beam, a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue, a picture of Karen, Rumsfeld, and probably some suntan lotion." The older man glares at Dean's snort. "What? Wouldn't want to burn."

"But nothing to help you get off the island and get back?"

Bobby shrugs. "What's the point? You don't know if you'll make it, might as well enjoy the time you've got."

Dean grins. "Amen to that," he says, returning to the rusting car in front of him.

"Kid, can I ask you a question?" Bobby's voice is muffled by the car that is once again on top of him.

"Shoot."

"How d'ya get those bruises?"

Dean stills. The smile turns into a taut grimace. "Got into a fight at school."

"Some high school kid manage to bust you up this bad, huh?"

The boy's grip tightens on the wrench. "Yeah, well, I wasn't paying attention." He says the last part bitterly, as if the half-truth feels uncomfortable on his tongue.

Castiel has been wondering for a while why Dean's attempts to exonerate his father always felt so familiar. He now realises it's because Dean reminds him of Michael, Uriel, Naomi, and all the other angels who defend their Father's orders time and time again.

"You sure there's nothing else? It's just with John leaving so suddenly and you not eating properly, you have me worried."

"I'm fine. We're all fine." Dean straightens up and wipes his hands on a rag. "I'm gonna go inside and check on Sam."

"You don't need to follow the kid around, you know? Give him some space; I'm sure he'll be fine on his own for a bit."

Dean ignores him and heads inside.

_x_

Angels have known for centuries that demons cannot think beyond evil. Their souls are twisted and their blood runs thick with darkness. One drop and you're tainted forever. That wish to hurt and maim and kill will take root in your heart. There can be no redemption.

Castiel looks at the boy with the demon blood and tries to see his twisted soul. Instead, all he can see is a blue brilliance that would put most angels' graces to shame.

Sam stares at the framed picture of Karen on Bobby's desk. His slumped shoulders and tired eyes speak of a sorrow too vast to be borne by such a young creature.

"What was Mom like?" asks Sam.

The question appears to startle Dean. The book on poltergeists fall from his hands onto the desk.

"She was, uh, nice. Used to make the best PB&amp;J sandwiches. And she used to sing _Hey Jude _instead of lullabies because that was her favourite song—"

"I know all that stuff, Dean. You've told me all that a million times. I want to know about other stuff. Like, what was her favourite food? And what did she normally wear? Did she ever get mad at us? Did she call me Sam or Sammy?"

Dean stares down at the contents page of the book in front of him. His lower lip trembles.

"Dean?"

"I-I don't know." Dean voice cracks. His chest clenches as he holds back sobs. "I can't remember."

_x_

Singer and the Winchesters are walking out of the woods near the back of the yard, shotguns swung over their shoulders. Bobby has just spent a fruitless couple of hours trying to teach the boys to shoot deer. Sam refused outright, whereas all of Dean's shots were well-aimed but wildly off-target.

"Bacon, sausage and jalapeños," Dean states. "Can't go wrong with them."

"I dunno, I think pineapple's a pretty good topping," Sam says with shrug.

Dean rolls his eyes. "God, I swear you're adopted."

Castiel cannot help but feel amused by that. Sam Winchester is his mother's intelligence and his father's determination. Even five minutes with the boy is enough to confirm there's no way he's not their progeny.

Sam does not appear to be amused. He shoves his brother. "Shut up. Just because you copy everything Dad does."

Dean pushes back. "First off, I don't. Secondly, at least I didn't spend my childhood crying over _Sweet Valley High._"

Sam's eyes narrow. Within seconds, the two boys are grappling at each other. Sam grabs Dean in a headlock while he tries to wrap his arms around the younger boy's torso. Dust rises off the beaten gravel as their feet scrape and kick along the ground on the way to the front door. Bobby stands off to the side, extending a tentative hand now and again in half-hearted attempts to break the two apart. None of them notice the Impala parked in the yard.

"Alright, break it up," Bobby says. His voice is gruff but his eyes say a different story. It's the same look of exasperation mixed with fondness Castiel has seen countless fathers give their sons. "Get inside before one of you idjits gets a concussion."

In the living room, sat amongst the dusty piles of books and papers, is John Winchester.

"Hey, boys," he says as the trio walk in. He looks grey and tired. This should not be the case, considering all his recent hunts have been merely ghosts and spirits. Castiel reckons it may have something more to do with the way the man has been pulling the photograph of him and his sons out every night and staring at it as he drinks.

All three of them stop and whirl round.

"When did you get here? It's been a month and no phone call, no nothing." Bobby turns to the boys. "Dean, Sam, could you give us two a minute?"

Both boys start to speak up in protest, but Bobby cuts them off. "This'll just take a minute, I swear. You can have your reunion after that."

"Fine." Dean grunts. He leaves the room. Sam follows him soon after.

Bobby sits down on the couch. The shotgun rests on his lap, still loaded with 8.4mm buckshots.

"The boys have been worried. Hell, I've been worried. Started to think you might be dead." Bobby looks over at the burnt out hunter. "You left without a word. Barely looked at your kids as you dropped 'em off."

John stays silent. He stares across the room at the grimy fireplace.

"Dean hardly spoke for the first week. Spent most of his time cleaning guns and watching Sam's every move. I don't think I've seen him leave the kid's side for more than a half hour or so this last month."

"'S my fault," John mumbles. "'S all my fault. I wrecked 'em."

"What do you mean?"

John continues to stare at the fireplace. He swallows another mouthful of fermented barley. "Sam. Dean. The running away. The bruises. Everything."

"What? Dean said those bruises came from a fight at school," says Bobby. A slight crease forms on his forehead.

John Winchester snorts, which morphs into a drunken chuckle. "Yeah. He said that to Sam too." The laugh dies down and his voice drops. "The kid's too good for me."

The crease on Bobby's forehead deepens into a frown. His fingers tighten their grip around the gun. "How did he get them?"

John turns to look at the other hunter. "It was me. I-I got mad and—"

"You what?" Bobby is on his feet, glaring down at John. The shotgun trembles in his hands.

"He let Sam run away! It was his responsibility and he failed!"

Bobby lifts up the firearm and cocks it. "Say another word and I swear I'll blast you full of buckshot."

John has a vein throbbing in his forehead. Castiel can see the neurons in his speech centre coming up with more things he'd like to say, but he looks down the barrel of the gun and seems to think better of it. "Sam! Dean!" he calls up the stairs. The two boys come running down. "Get in the car, we're leaving."

Both take one look at the shotgun pointed towards their father's heart and comply without comment.

Once all three are in the car, Sam says, "I've left some of my stuff there. When are we going back?"

John clenches his jaw. His knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. "Never."

Dean turns to look out of the window. Sam clenches his fists in anger.

Castiel can see these two boys' lives ahead of them. Never knowing a home, slowly having everyone they love taken from them. Everyone but each other. And then that too.

And that thought is one he simply cannot bear.


	8. Chapter 7

_December 1997_

Castiel has watched Earth for a long time. He has seen plates shift and mountains form. He has seen countless species come into existence via a minor genetic mutation, then die out due to much the same reason. He has watched the rhythmic undulations of glacial and interglacial periods. The plants and animals adapt to their environment, working around the planet's whims.

Until now.

He now sees glaciers retreating, crops failing, rivers drying up. He now sees long lines of cars pumping carbon dioxide into the air as their owners let their engines idle in traffic queues. Where there were once fields of winter wheat, there is now nothing but desert.

He now sees a species hell-bent on destroying their home.

It makes him wonder if the angels were right. Maybe these creatures really do need a firm hand and orders to follow.

But then he watches as the UN passes the Kyoto Protocol. Governments all over the world agree to work towards lowering greenhouse gas emissions. They would prefer a sustainable planet to one where the lives of their children's children are in jeopardy.

This is the people learning from their mistakes.

This is the people promising change.

This is not the product of angelic intervention. It is the product of choice. Despite what Heaven may think, these creatures are capable of listening to their conscience and deciding for themselves. Not all the time, but often enough to make free will something worth fighting for.

This world and its people are unpredictable, chaotic, fascinating. Castiel finds he wants to keep it that way.

_x_

The time for the essay is nearly up. Sam grips his pen tighter as the boy sat behind him sneezes once again. He scribbles the final two lines of his conclusion, the muscles in his hands cramping from the build-up of lactic acid. Once he's done, he grips the table leg with his right hand, letting the cool metal suck the heat out of his burning hand. He rifles through the papers with his left.

Sam has spent the last two weeks studying for this exam. Ever since his teachers have told him his spotty school record could lead to him being rejected by the better colleges, the child has thrown himself into his studies. While Dean used to hide comic books behind large tomes full of exorcisms, Sam hides textbooks on the American Civil War.

The bell rings. The students put down their pens and file out of class. The boy who had been sitting behind Sam coughs once again. The vessel of Darkness pulls a face and shuffles away.

Dean's waiting outside when Sam comes out of the building.

"You look like you just saw one of Santa's reindeer get run over," he says by way of greeting.

Sam grimaces. "Nothing that bad. Just some kid who hasn't heard of a tissue."

They get into the car and Dean starts up the engine. "How did the test go?"

"It's always difficult writing about the border states. The whole thing was just so messed up." Sam shrugs.

"Yeah, Lincoln really hadn't known what can of worms he was opening," Dean murmurs as he slowly backs out from the parking spot.  
Sam's brow creases in what Castiel interprets as mild surprise.

It's gone before Dean looks back. Instead Sam asks, "Heard from Dad?"

Dean's jaw clenches. "Yeah, I did."

"And?"

"He says he's going to be another few weeks or so. But he's left a number that we can call if we need him to come back early."

"So he's missing Christmas?"

"Seems like it, Sammy."

"Typical," Sam spits out. His stomach rumbles. "What's for dinner?"

"Golden and spongy and rhymes with pinky," Dean chants.

Sam groans.

_x_

It has been two days since the cough set in. One day since the fever. Sam groans and turns over on the bed.

"Ugh, need more aspirin," he mumbles into the sweat-drenched pillow.

Dean turns off the television and gets up. His back cracks from having been in the same position for the last two hours. He heads over to the counter, picks up the first aid kit, and unzips it. In the corner is the yellow bottle of Bayer aspirin. Castiel can see inside. He knows it's empty. But Dean is not a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent, so he takes it out and shakes it.

He comes to the same conclusion.

"There's none left the main kit," he calls out. "Where's the smaller one?"

""In my bag," Sam replies. He coughs up thick, yellow sputum into a tissue.

Dean goes behind the small wooden screen separating the living area from the bedroom. He opens the drawstring on Sam's bag and starts pulling clothes and books out. Near the bottom, his hand wraps itself around the flyers Sam has collected. He pulls them out.

"Found it yet?" Sam calls over from the bed.

Dean doesn't reply. Instead, he stares at the smiling faces and university crests. Castiel feels bitter as he notes how the young man's heart hammers in his chest as panic floods through him. Dean flips one open. His fingers ghost over the courses his brother has highlighted, leaving trails of condensation on the glossed surface.

Castiel wonders what the Righteous Man will do now. The Righteous Man does not keep secrets from the Father. The Righteous Man should be full of—well—_righteous _anger at this betrayal. There will be repercussions, confrontations. And maybe the bond between these two brothers will finally break.

"Dean, hurry up! I feel like 'm sweating out one of the Great Lakes here!" Sam follows it up with another wet cough.

Dean clutches the promotional literature in his fist, then shoves them back in the bag. He roots around until he finds the other first aid kit. Blinking back tears, he pulls out the bottle of aspirin.

"I've found 'em," he says. His voice teeters on the verge of cracking. He clears his throat. "Jeez, keep your panties on. How many do you want?"

Castiel watches as Dean goes over to Sam's bed with the pills in one hand and a glass of water in the other. These brothers love, fight, betray and forgive each other. Over and over again. Breaking these two boys by pitting them against each other would be a sin in itself.

It's a shame Castiel seems to be the only one who sees this.

_x_

Three days later, Dean insists on taking Sam to the hospital. His breathing has become heavily erratic and his sputum has started turning brown.

They park the car in front of the large, blocky building. While they hardly had a choice in the matter, Castiel approves of the hospital they are going into. It has one of the lowest rates of post-op infections in the country due to a strict and well-enforced hygiene policy.

Inside, the receptionist hands over an admissions form. She peers at Dean. "Are you his guardian?"

"No, but my Dad's out of town and I have power of attorney over my brother in situations like this," Dean recites with a disarming smile. He holds out a document John had forged a couple of years ago, which the receptionist barely glances at.

"If you could fill that in and bring it back," she says, nodding towards the clipboard in Dean's hand.

The boys take a seat in the triage waiting room. Dean chews on the end of the pen as he tries to recall the address of the motel they were staying at.

"You remember the name of the street of the motel?" he asks.

"Sixteen East Merle Road," Sam rasps, before taking a few panting breaths.

"'Kay, got it, thanks." Dean jots down the address and his false name. He stares at the part of the form asking about health insurance. He shrugs and writes 'uninsured'.

Eleven minutes and forty-two seconds later, they are led into a private examination room. A nurse then sets about recording Sam's temperature, pulse and breathing rate. They're all high. She leaves and a little while later a doctor comes in. She asks the boy to breathe as deeply as he can while she holds a stethoscope to the back, then front, of his chest.

"Pneumonia," the doctor says, pulling out the stethoscope buds. She picks up Sam's file and starts scribbling down her notes. "Pretty mild, though there's fluid in both lungs. A joint course of amoxicillin and azithromycin should cure it, along with plenty of rest." She turns to face Dean. "Would you mind stepping outside for a second, please?"

Dean looks up from Sam. "What?"

The doctor taps her foot impatiently. Castiel feels he can appreciate why. She is having to cover for her colleague, and the staff coffee machine has broken down. This combination has left her tired and temperamental.

"I asked if you'd mind stepping outside for a bit."

Dean nods, before returning his gaze to his brother. "It's 'kay Sammy, I'll be right outside."

Sam nods. The doctor leads Dean outside to a smaller, empty waiting room filled with pamphlets detailing the dangers of smoking.

"I didn't want to say it in front of your brother in case it worried him, but it says here on your form that he's uninsured," says the doctor. The curtness has drained out of her voice. Instead, it has been replaced by something akin to compassion. "If you take a seat here, I'll call a representative over from the financial department to talk to you about your bills."

Dean swallows, then complies. Once the doctor leaves, he palms the pockets of his jeans. Castiel assumes he's looking for the bundle of ten-dollar bills his usually keeps on his person, but that's currently in the motel room, stowed in the left pocket of the last pair of jeans he wore.

Apart from a few dimes, quarters, and an old stick of gum, his pockets are empty.

Dean curses and leans back into the plastic seat. He pulls out his wallet.

Just then, a man wearing a smart, grey suit and a sharp smile walks in. "Mr. Williams?"

Dean jerks up onto his feet. "Uh huh."

"I just need to talk through your hospital bills with you," he says. He hands over a sheet of paper and starts gesturing with the nib of his pen. "That's the flat rate for the ER, which you can pay in one go or some now, some at the end. Any additional treatment or tests will cost extra."

Dean blinks twice. He squints at the figure near the bottom of the page. "Seven hundred dollars? You sure you don't want a couple of gallons of my blood along with that?"

The man in the suit grimaces. "Mr. Williams, I know the cost can sometimes seem excessive—"

Dean cuts him off by pulling a card out of his wallet and handing it to him. "I'll pay the whole ER cost now."

The representative nods and leaves Dean to stare at the patterned wallpaper. The young man wraps his jacket a little tighter around himself. He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet.

The man in the suit returns in about a minute. He hands Dean's card back. "I'm sorry, it looks like this card has been cancelled. Do you have an alternative?"

Castiel can see the whites of Dean's eyes as he rifles through a wallet full of expired or cancelled cards.

"I-I'm going to need to go talk to someone to make some alternate arrangements," he says, palming the back of his neck. "Where can I find a payphone?"

The representative peers round the door. "At the bottom of this corridor," he says, pointing, "turn right. And about halfway along _that _corridor, there will be some payphones on the left."

Dean nods his thanks.

"I'll wait here for you," the man says.

The Righteous Man has already started walking down the hallway. He turns the corner and breaks into a run, skidding to a halt next to the booths. He grabs the telephone nearest to him and puts it between his ear and shoulder. It nearly falls when Dean dips into his pocket for the number John has left him with. He dials it. It rings out for a while.

"C'mon, c'mon, just pick up," he babbles, swaying from foot to foot. No one picks up.

He tries again, his fingers frantic over the keypad. The result is much the same as it was for his last attempt.

Dean stares at the wall. He looks hurt and betrayed. Castiel wonders if this is how Michael looked when Father left.

He slams the phone back in its holder and steps away. With a quick pat on the waistband of his jeans to confirm the presence of his gun, Dean heads back to Sam's room. He peeks around the door, breathing out and entering once he's confirmed it's empty.

He moves around the bed and gently manoeuvres a dozing Sam into a sitting position. "Rise and shine, Sammy. We gotta get outta here."

"'S warm 'ere," Sam mumbles against Dean's shoulder.

"I know, kid, but we have to move fast."

Sam seems to detect the panic in Dean's voice. He opens his eyes and starts to shuffle off the bed. He coughs a large wad of brown sputum onto Dean's shirt.

Dean closes his eyes and freezes. "That's... That's disgusting."

Guilt flashes across Sam's face, before it's replaced by a dopey grin. "Remember that time you put your snot-covered hand on my face?"

"How the hell do you still remember that?"

"Yeah? Well, this is my revenge," Sam says, standing up on unsteady feet.

Dean rolls his eyes and wraps his younger brother's arm around his shoulders. "Lean on me if you start feeling dizzy, but we've got to get out of here before Walter Skinner comes looking."

Sam pants and starts dragging his feet along the cold vinyl floor towards the door. Once there, he leans against the door frame to catch his breath.

In the meantime, Dean scans his surroundings and plans his next course of action. Castiel can see the neurons firing in Dean's brain as the innate soldier awakens. His eyes dart along the exits until he settles on a secluded one situated next to a cupboard stocked with cleaning supplies.

"Okay, this way," he whispers.

Sam stumbles forward with a tired groan. Dean grabs him before he falls.

"Easy, tiger," he says. He frowns when he catches sight of the rivulets of sweat dripping down Sam's pallid face. "You're not gonna throw up on me, are you?"

Sam shakes his head and starts walking. Castiel can see the fluid pooling in his alveoli, making his breaths weak and inefficient. "'M fine," he mumbles. He increases his pace despite his stiff muscles.

The boys are only ten yards from the exit when a passing physical therapist stops them.

"Excuse me, can I help you guys?"

Castiel notes the increase in blood flow through Dean's brain. He knows what this is. This is the Righteous Man preparing to lie again.

"No, no we're fine. My brother, uh, he just needs a little help getting to the restroom," he says with a nervous smile. Blood rushes to Sam's cheeks. He contracts his bicep and the grip around Dean's neck tightens.

"Oh, sure, it's at the bottom of this corridor, on the left," the physical therapist says, nodding in the direction of the toilets.

"Thanks."

The man watches the brothers walk off before turning around and continuing on his way. Once he disappears into one of the wards, Dean turns Sam around and they both hurry back out of the door.

Three minutes and two breaks later, Sam is lying exhausted across the back seat of the Impala while Dean is driving out of the hospital parking lot.

"Wha's goin' on?" Sam slurs, his eyes drooping.

"Last card got cancelled so I couldn't pay the ER bill. I'd put our address down on the form, so we've got to get our stuff from the motel and shift to somewhere else."

Sam twitches his head in a nod. He closes his eyes and within minutes, he's asleep.

Dean doesn't bother to wake Sam when they arrive at the motel. He enters their room and starts stuffing their clothes and any leftover food into the duffles. His hand hovers over the photograph of John and Mary on the bedside table. Dean bites his lip and slides the photo frame into Sam's bag.

Once he's done, he checks out of the motel and drives away.

_x_

"A hundred and twenty dollars for the week," says the man behind the front desk. His badge says _Evan Kalecki, Assistant Manager_.

Dean pulls out his folded bunch of ten dollar bills. He counts them out. There are nine of them.

"Can I pay you at the end of the week?"

"Sorry kid, I need it now or no room." Mr. Kalecki shrugs. "What about that money you have there?"

"I need this for my brother's medicine. He's really sick," Dean mumbles. Castiel cannot work out whether he should feel amused or sad at how young he manages to make himself sound.

Mr. Kalecki's face softens. He sighs. "Fine, you can have the room." Dean bites the inside of his cheek to suppress his smile. "But I don't care if he has the damn plague, you're both out if I don't get the payment by tomorrow."

Dean nods. "Thank you."

He turns around to see Sam teetering on the doorstep.

"Dean, we got any more aspirin?" he asks.

Dean goes over and wraps his jacket around Sam's shoulders. This does little to stop the child from shivering.

"We've run out. I need to go to the pharmacy to pick up your other stuff as well. You just go lie down inside, I'll be back in a bit."

Sam nods and lets Dean lead him into their room and tuck him into bed. "Mother hen," he croaks.

"Shut up," he growls, smoothing out the blankets and palming his forehead. "I'm going to go pick up those medicines, along with some aspirin, from the Walgreens down the street. I'll leave this with you," he says, tucking his .45 caliber pistol under Sam's pillow. "Anyone comes through that door that's not me, you shoot."

"What if it's Dad?"

Dean's hands ball into fists. "You shoot," he mutters under his breath.

Sam shifts and mumbles a tired "did y'say somethin'?" into the pillow.

"I said 'stop asking stupid questions', dork. You need anything else?"

Sam shakes his head and coughs once again. Dean sets about laying the salt lines. He grips his torso when his stomach opts to remind him he hasn't eaten anything in over twenty-four hours. He finishes lining the rest of the door before taking a long drink from the kitchen tap. He leans against the edge of the counter with his eyes closed.

"If you ignore it, the pain will go away," he whispers to himself. After giving the water ten seconds to settle in his stomach, he leaves the room.

The sun has begun to set by the time Dean reaches the pharmacy.

As he watches the star kiss the horizon, Castiel wonders if one could argue that the sun does indeed move around the Earth, like humans used to think. As there is no such thing as absolute space, if one took the Earth as the centre of the universe, the sun—along with everything else in existence—would be moving relative to it.

By the time Castiel's musings come to an end, Dean has stepped out of the pharmacy. There is a packet in his hand and only ten dollars left in his pocket. He returns to the hotel and gives Sam his medicine.

The boy sits up in bed. He swallows the pills. Sipping on the rest of the water, he says, "Dean, I got a question for you..."

"Shoot."

"Say some giant radioactive aliens visited our planet, and they came to talk to you. They said you could either hand me over or they'd eat everyone on the planet. What would you do?"

Dean stares at his brother with raised eyebrows. "That's your question?"

"Yeah, why?"

"That's a fucking stupid question."

"Whatever. Answer it."

Dean looks away. His loud, confident voice doesn't match up with his guilt-laden eyes. "Everyone on the planet, obviously. Man, think of all the hot chicks who'd die if I didn't!"

Sam gives Dean a weak shove. "Do you ever use your upstairs brain or does it sit there and look pretty?"

Dean replies with something about how both brains of his look pretty, to which Sam groans. But Castiel is no longer listening.

He is thinking about Sam's question.

It's not a stupid question, though he's fairly sure Dean doesn't think that either. It's brutal in its simplicity: humanity or your brother, who will you save?

Neither of these boys know how important this question will be.

_x_

It takes an excruciating forty-seven minutes for Dean to lose the game of pool. He's in a bar about half a mile away from the motel, where Sam is lying fast asleep. He hands over his last ten dollar bill with a grimace.

The game was evenly matched. While Dean had managed to find the most intoxicated customer to challenge to a game of pool, it soon became obvious the man was far from a novice. Dean, while sober, was exhausted. Faint tremors ran down his limbs from a lack of food and sleep. Compared to his normal standards, his performance was abysmal. There were only been a couple of decent chips that resembled Dean's usual standards.

Dean walks out of the bar. The man in the clean shirt and dirty jeans follows him. He has been staring at the young man from the moment he walked into the establishment.

"What's your rate, sweetheart?" he calls over.

Dean spins round and shoots the man a glare. "Sorry, I don't swing that way. You'll have to get your rocks off somewhere else." He starts to walk on.

The man catches up with him. Dean recoils at the stench of alcohol laced with sweat. "Quit playing hard to get. I can tell you need the money; you look like you're about to collapse any minute. So how about an even two hundred for the night? I'll even buy you a meal."

His hand reaches out and curls itself around Dean's forearm. Dean pulls away with a violent jerk.

"Get offa me! I don't need your money!" he shouts.

The man lets go and splays his fingers in what Castiel assumes is a placating gesture. "Fine, fine, just trying to help. But if you change your mind, I'll be in the bar, waiting." His gaze travels down Dean's body, lingering for half a second on his crotch.

Dean strides off, his veneer of calm crumbling into panic as he gets further away. He runs back to the motel, stopping near the reception when a spell of dizziness washes over him. There's not enough glucose reaching his brain.

"Kid, please tell me you've got the money."

Dean looks up to see Mr. Kalecki standing beside him. The man looks uncomfortable.

"You said I had 'til tomorrow, right?"

Mr. Kalecki runs a hand through his hair. "The manager's giving me hell over letting you stay like this. He wants the money by tonight or you and your brother are out." Both Castiel and the assistant manager watch the blood drain out of Dean's face. "'M sorry." He starts to walk away when Dean grabs the sleeve of his jacket.

"Please. I'm begging you, please." Tears cling to the youth's lashes. "He's really ill and it's cold outside."

"I'm sorry, kid. I wish there was something I could do." says Mr. Kalecki, gently prying his jacket out of Dean's weak grip. He exits into his small office, leaving Dean to stare at the wall.

"God, what do I do?"

His plea goes unheard by all of Heaven save one.

Eventually, he gets up and goes into their room. Sam fumbles for the gun when he hears the door opening.

"Oh, 's you," he murmurs, replacing the weapon.

"Feeling better?" Dean tries his best to keep his voice from cracking.

"Yeah, still sleepy though. Hey, are you okay?" Sam starts to ease himself up when Dean hurries to his side and forces him to lay down again.

"I'm fine, think I'm just catching a cold, 's all," he says. He swallows and blinks rapidly. "You need any more medicine?"

"Not for another few hours. Just feel tired, that's all. And it still hurts to breathe."

"'Kay." Dean, places a gentle hand on Sam's forehead. The boy bats it away.

"I'm kinda hungry though. Have we got any food?"

Dean bites his lip. From the neurons firing in his brain, Castiel can tell he's thinking about something, trying to make a decision.

If this is what Castiel thinks it is, he might scream.

"I'm gonna go out for a bit and get us some. I might be a while. You go be Sleeping Beauty for a little while longer."

Sam sighs, then shoots him a tired grin. "Wake me with a kiss and I'll punch you."

Dean snorts. "You wish."

He gets up and walks out of the door once again.

Castiel refuses to watch this young man break. Dean Winchester is Good. He lies and he cheats and he sins. But his love is loyal and unconditional. He is selfless and brave. He is a soul unlike any other. And he deserves better.

It is a decision he will probably come to regret, but he makes it nonetheless.

The man is currently praying in a church in Kentucky. He is alone, and he is devoted. He is just what Castiel needs.

"Let me do what is right by God," the man whispers.

Castiel offers him this opportunity.

_I'm Castiel. I'm an angel of the Lord._

He watches as convulsions overpower the man. He sinks to his knees, clutching his head.

_I need you to let me use your body to do God's work._

The lie sits heavily on Castiel's conscience. He ignores it for now. He has other things to worry about.

_Will you be a true believer and consent to being my vessel?_

The man curls up in a ball underneath the seat of the pew. "Yes," he gasps.

That is all Castiel needs. He channels his energy into taking a particle form, focussing in on the man in front of him. He glows blue just before decoherence occurs, and then his world is black.

_x_

When Castiel opens his eyes, he finds himself in a pine-scented church in Kentucky. He's not quite sure what he's doing there—or even how to move his limbs, for that matter. But a couple of experimental tries and he's up and walking.

He's by the door when he remembers what he came down here for. Within a second, he's in an abandoned alley. There is garbage strewn across the ground. The whole place smells like dead rats and rotting fish.

Dean Winchester wrinkles his nose as he passes through.

_Where is Castiel? He has left his station._

The voice is Uriel's. Castiel hoped he'd get a little more time than this.

Castiel runs up to Dean and places a hand on his shoulder. The boy spins round with a quick "what the fuck?"

"I need you to listen to me. I know where you are going and I cannot let you do that."

"And who the hell are you?" Dean growls. Castiel can see his hand reaching down for the knife tucked in his waistband.

"I am Castiel. I'm an angel of the Lord, though I wouldn't say I'm exactly doing God's work right now, but that is not of import—" He stops when the voices from Heaven start up again.

_That angel has always been insolent. He's a disappointment to the garrison. Who knows how many times I'll have to wipe his mind before he stops with this childish behaviour?_

The voice is brisk, formal, exasperated. It belongs to Naomi. It would appear the news of his disappearance has spread fast. He wants to analyse her mention of his mind being wiped, but Dean has started talking again.

"Yeah, and I'm Philo Beddoe," Dean says with a snort.

Castiel cocks his head. He knows this is Dean Winchester. He does not understand the reason for this lie.

Dean rolls his eyes. "_Every Which Way But Loose_? God, what's wrong with the people around here..." He trails off, then returns his sharp gaze to Castiel. "Look, if you're a Bible-thumper, you're wasting your time on me," he says, shrugging Castiel's hand off his shoulder.

He takes a few steps, then turns around. There's a faint glimmer in Dean's eyes that Castiel has learnt to recognise as hope.

"Hey, Cas, if you're all about doing God's work an' all, do you think you could give me a hundred and twenty dollars?"

_He will be with Michael and Lucifer's meatsuits: the Winchesters. He has talked of taking a vessel and meeting them before._

"I don't have any money on me," says Castiel. Dean's face falls. "But I can try to procure—"

_It._

Castiel watches from above as his vessel crumples to the ground. He sees terror flashing across Dean's face before he runs out of the alley, towards the bar.

_How many times must you do this, Castiel?_

The voice sounds tired and fuzzy. He cannot be sure who it belongs to because there is too much static. His vision blurs, and then there's nothing.

_x_

The cars look different. They were blockier. They used more petroleum. Their engines sounded louder.

And Castiel does not remember there being so many.

In fact, Castiel cannot remember much at all.

He remembers the fish, the wars, the young man fighting with the Marines in Vietnam. He remembers a couple and their Chevrolet Impala.

But nothing after that.

While it is puzzling, Castiel is sure it will come to him eventually.

There is a young man in front of him. He seems tall and well-built for his age—if a little gaunt. There is little out of the ordinary about him.

That is, apart from the fact there is no light emanating from his soul. All creatures with souls glow, some brighter than others. This is the first Castiel has seen which is completely dark.

He watches as the young man stands in a phone booth with tears rolling down his face. He reaches into his pocket, ignores the four fifty dollar bills inside, and pulls out a few coins. He slots them in and dials. Someone picks up within two rings.

"Caleb here, who's this?" The man on the other end sounds young, though not as young as the sandy-haired man in the booth.

"I-I want to talk to John. Is he there?" The young man's voice is unexpectedly steady.

Distant, crackly sounds of shuffling can be heard, then a yell of "John, it's for you."

"Hello?" This voice is deeper, rougher. Another couple of tears escape from the rims of the boy's eyes.

"Dad, it's me."

"Is everything okay? Is your brother okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, we're fine." He holds the telephone away from himself and lets out a tiny sob.

"Anything else happen? Why're you calling?"

"Just-just wanted to know when you're coming back." The young man's voice cracks. He coughs to cover it up.

"It's still going to be a few days. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"'Kay." The young man hangs up.

He walks over to a door and fishes out the keys. He opens the door. Castiel notes the mix of blood and semen sticking to his inner thighs.

Inside, there is a boy with a vibrant blue soul. It dims momentarily as he coughs, but then it is back in its former magnificence.

"Dean? That you?" The boy's voice sounds groggy. "Are you okay?"

The older boy comes inside and sits on his bed. He winces as his behind makes contact with the mattress.

"I'm fine Sammy, just go to sleep." He voice is filled with love and despair in equal measure. His eyes are dull and tired. Castiel guesses this is what human beings, God's favourite creatures, look like when they're broken.

He cannot explain why, but he feels like he's watching things fall apart.

_x_

**Author Note: Thanks for taking the time to read this, I'd love it if you could leave me your thoughts!**


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